
Class r 

Book. 

Copyright }I^- 



COFYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




"^iU.o. ^A^J^^-^^ 




^^RANDSIRE^S 
ELL 




AND 0"^"^^^ pOEMS 

BY 

ALBINA BROCKWAY LETTS 




Published on the Fiftieth Anniversary 
of the Marriage of 

Albina Marilla Brockway 

AND 

James Robinson Letts 
1859-1909 



^ 






To 



My beloved sons and daugJiters zclw 
have deemed these poems worthy of 
preservation, this little book is lovingly 
inscribed. 

A. B, L. 



LlBRftRYcf CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 

JUN 7 l^Ud 

/•% Copyritfnt entry ^ 

Class /I ^c nc 



Invocation. 



Our Father, God ! To Thee belongs 
Our fervent thanks, our joyful songs, 
For blessings all along the way, 
For those that crown our lives today. 
For native land, for Church, for State, 
For all that makes our country great. 
For home, for friends, for kindred dear, 
For all that gives us strength and cheer. 
For son's and daughter's love and worth. 
For children's children round the hearth. 
For love that fails not 'neath the strain 
Of toil or trials, age or pain. 
For faith that counts Thy promise sure, 
That knows "Thy mercy shall endure,'' 
For pardoning love, a gracious store, 
For o-race to trust Tliee evermore. 



—7- 



Copyrighted April 15, 1909. 



Kellog-g-Baxter Pub. Co. 

11 West Ninth Street, 

Kansas City, Mo. 



PREFACE. 

This little volume of poems is published for the 
pleasure of the beloved family and friends of the 
author, not for the public, therefore zve entreat 
the literary critic to pass it by unscathed. These 
modest poems have been zvritten during the many 
years of a very busy life, not for public scrutiny, 
but because the thoughts and feelings insisted on 
expression and gave the writer no rest nor peace 
till transferred to paper, perhaps to be laid aside 
for years without copying. 

Beside the baby's crib, during the long night 
watches by the sick bed, amidst the busy min- 
istries of an earnest zv Oman's life, they have sung 
themselves in her heart and found outlet through 
her pen to be, after many years, gathered to- 
gether and preserved by those whom she holds 
dearest. 

The authors thanks are due The Christian 
Herald, The Independent, The Herald and Pres- 
byter, and The Midland for their courtesy in 
allozving verses already published in their col- 
umns to he reproduced in this little volume. 



-9-- 



INDEX 

Abide With Me 123 

A Christmas Baby 114 

A Christmas Carol 113 

A Fragment 73 

After the Storm 88 

All Hail the New Year 26 

A Mid- Summer Dawn 73 

A Miracle 49 

A Picnic Poem - 74 

A Vision of the Night 53 

A Reminisence 96 

Baby's First Laugh 54 

"Be a Good Boy" 69 

Bring Forth the Lilies Fair! 33 

By Grandsire's Well 15 

Chastened 97 

Christmas Eve 110 

Dedication 6 

Don't Fall, Little Man 58 

Dying, Old Tree? 89 

God's Acre 39 

House or Home 71 

He Is Risen - 34 

Higher Arithmetic 66 

His Brother's Keeper 65 

If Thy Soul Were in My Soul's Stead 99 

In Memoriam 116-122 

—11— 



INDEX -Continued. 

Invocation 7 

Lines to April 36 

Mae 68 

Marriage 20 

Memorial Flowers 47 

Morning by the Sea 80 

Mother's Old Quilt 43 

Mother's Will-o'-th'-Wisp 60 

My Valentine 28 

My Lesson 27 

Our Boys 40 

Old Noble 23 

On the Heights 21 

Our Pioneer Dead 50 

Our Thank Offering 93 

Oh, Ye March Winds 36 

Peace 100 

Prayer or Praise 87 

Preface 9 

Peace Be Unto You 108 

The Lord Is Risen Indeed 32 

The Little Red Shoes on the Hearth 54 

The Mother's Wish on Her Son's Birthday 30 

The Mother's Wail 56 

Thy Recompense 106 

The Ranz Des Vaches 103 

—12— 



INDEX-Concluded. 

The Angel's Song Ill 

Thanksgiving Eve 101 

The Covenant Meeting 98 

The Poet's Verdict 92 

The Cricket on the Hearth 91 

The Aftermath 86 

The Common Lot 85 

The Holy Place 79 

The Empty Nest 69 

The Mythical Spoon 62 

The Flowers 37 

The Robins Have Come 34 

Whar the Sparrows Taught 22 

The Dropped Stitch 24 

What Do You Bring, New Year? 26 

What are Birthdays For? 29 

What Shall W^e Name the Baby? 55 

Which One? 67 

Woman's Work 81 



-13- 



''Westward Ho!" was the cry throughout the land, 

And movers' wagons, as the seashore sands. 

On each road were seen all the weary day ; 

And their canvas tops like the white-capped spray. 

Westward rolled with a strong sweep, far and wide, 

But never went back with the evening tide. 

And while Grandsire sat 'neath the deep, green shade 

Not far from the well, and the scene surveyed, 

His little grandson rolled on the grass, 

And watched the tired teams creeping past. 

''Human nature's a study," Grandsire said, 

As he softly nodded his hoary head ; 

"It's curious enough, how that straws will show. 

As you've often heard, how the wind doth blow. 

And I learn a good deal more than you'd think, 

About the folks that come to the well for a drink." 

One wagon had halted ; the team was lean ; 

You could count their ribs and the spaces between ; 

Three dogs followed close, some guns Vv^ere in view. 

And fishing tackle in plenty, too. 

Some frowsy children "withstanding a drouth," 

A frowsier mother, with pipe in her mouth, 

And a long, lank man sauntered up to the well. 

And nodded as his eye on Grandsire fell. 

He paused and balanced the pail on the curb 

While he answered Grandsire's greeting word: 

"Yes, we're goin' out west, vv^here things will grow 

With half the v/ork they do here, you know. 

And if game is plenty we'uns 'low v/e'll find 

A better place an' more to our mind. 

Did I hate to leave? Wal — no, I can't say 

That I fretted mAich 'bout comin' avi^ay, 

-15- 



For the land was foul or worn out, far an" near, 

An' the weeds tuk our melons every year, 

An' the neighbors never wuz much to my mind — 

When we fust went thar they 'peared sorter kind, 

But they didn't care much fur us arter while 

When they foun' we wuz pore'n couldn't put on style. 

Pore folks back thar don't have no show, 

An' they never come near 'less someone wuz low. 

Their stock broke into my 'taters an' corn — 

Mine never teched their'n sure's you're born. 

(To be sure, their fences wuz better'n mine. 

An' they built most of th' division line) ; 

They wouldn't go coonin' and didn't care shucks 

Fur fishin', or huntin' fur rabbits an' ducks ; 

But we hope we'll find neighbors as good as the best 

When we onct git settled out thar in the west." 

"Nay, nay!" said Grandsire, "believe me, you'll see 
That folks are alike whereve.r they be ; 
Selfish folks are plenty, and now, you mind. 
Your neighbors will always be of that kind." 

"Wal, that's 'bout my luck, but Til be goin' along: 

Shuah. all o' them dogs to me b'long, 

Aax a fust-rate rifle an' a shot-gun too, 

An' a fiddle to chirk us up when we're blue — 

Yes, my bosses air powerful weak, an' one's lame — 

Hope they tell us the truth 'bout western game ; 

When we git out into the huntin' groun' 

We'll let 'em rest while we look aroun', 

An' if the folks air lively an' full of fun, 

I'll have good times yet, 'fore my day is done." 

Grandsire pondered, and leaned on his stick 

Till another team drew up for a drink. 

The clean, bright children and a cow tied behind. 

Proved them movers of quite a dififerent kind. 

A strong, honest- faced man came up the walk 

With a cheery "Good morning," and paused for a talk, 

—16— 



While the stout team drank and cooled in the shade, 
And the children stretched their limbs and played ; 
While a clean, rosy woman her needles plied, 
As she watched the children by the wagon's side. 

Said Grandsire : ''And why do you go out west ? 
Do you think that country so much the best?' 
"Well, they say the land is cheap and rich, 
With no grubbin' of stumps or diggin' o' ditch ; 
That there's a good chance for a poor man there, 
And I'm willin' to work like a man for my share ; 
For we want to give the children a better show 
Than we've ever had in the world, you know." 

''Did you hate to leave the old home, my man?" 

As Grandsire spoke, o'er the face of tan 

A tremor fell ; and a deep flush shone, 

And his lip half quivered, then a sigh, half groan, 

Came forth, as he nodded: "Indeed I did. 

For I'd lived there all my life," he said; 

"Yes, there were lots of things we hated to leave. 

And some for which we will always grieve; 

The bearing orchard, the brook by the road. 

The smell of the meadow newly mowed, 

The buryin' ground where father was laid 

Close by where the baby's grave was made ; 

The poor old dog that we couldn't bring. 

And e'en the old dipper down by the spring ; 

Most of all, the neighbors, young and old, 

The best in the world, just as good as gold. 

pJefore we left them last Thursday night, 

7"hey held prayer-meetin' at early candle-light ; 

And when they sang, 'Blest Be the Tie,' 

Scarcely an eye in the house was dry; 

And when thev closed with 'My Christian friend?. 



■17— 



In bonds of love/ until it ends 

In, *We must take the parting hand,' 

My poor weak knees would hardly stand, 

And I dropped down, and bending o'er, 

My tears went splashin' on the floor. 

They came in the morning we started away, 

And when Deacon Bicknell knelt down to pray, 

The Lord to preserve us in that strange land, 

And hold us in the hollow of His hand, 

We thought we'd rather live there on a stone, 

Than go out to Paradise all alone. 

They brought us fried chicken to eat on the road. 

And beech-nuts and chestnuts to add to the load, 

And doughnuts and pickles and cranberry sass, 

And a great big sack of sassafras, 

And cookies that were spiced with caraway seed, 

And everything that movers could need; 

And things we couldn't use, or save, 

That we buried at night in the turnip cave. 

No wonder, you see, I hated to leave, 

For we never again will such neighbors have." 

"Oh, yes! You'll have neighbors as good as can be, 
And perhaps the old friends may sometime see. 
You'll just such good Christians be sure to find. 
Best of all, you didn't leave the Lord behind!" 

No one could the gladsome truth withstand, 

And as Grandsire held out his trembling hand, 

The poor man took it in both his own, 

While a strong thrill of courage came into his tone. 

"Bless your heart ! That's true. Why, you do me gooc 

Tm afraid it's wicked, this sorrowful mood. 

But I felt like a tree pulled out of the ground 

With the roots all danglin' and limp around, 

So I drank after the horses every day, 

For they say you can cure home-sick, that way ; 

But I reckon I never have, 'til now, 

—18— 



Quit lookin' back with my hand on the plow. 
Good-bye ! I'll be glad at the end of the route, 
To find them good neighbors you're talkin' about; 
We'll have a prayer-meeting and Sunday-school, too, 
And no doubt find work for the Lord to do." 

The little boy crept to his Grandsire's knee, 

With eyes just as big as eyes could be; 

"Oh, Gran'ther! I listened as still as the mice, 

But you didn't say the same thing twice !" 

And an awesome look in the sweet face grew. 

For he couldn't see how both sayings were true : 

And truth's foundations w^ere sorely assailed, 

If Gran'ther's word one tittle had failed. 

Grandsire held his hand, looked into his eyes 

With clear, true gaze which no fraud could disguise, 

And said: "It was all true, as I surely do know; 

The first man was selfish and shiftless and low, 

And the Good Book says, Tf a man would have friends 

He must show himself friendly ;' the Lord never sends 

Good neighbors, or blessings, unless we can bear 

Of kindness and labor an honest share. 

The man who idles with dogs and guns. 

Will be poor while grass grows and water runs ; 

But the other man was the salt of the earth ;' 

He'll have a sweet home and a clean, bright hearth. 

And friends will flock to its warmth and cheer. 

And love him still more, as year by year 

He toils, and willingly takes a share 

In the world's great burdens of labor and care; 

He will share men's troubles and lighten their load, 

By his Christian kindness along the road. 

And though he will never be rich or grand. 

He'll wield a man's power on every hand ; 

And he'll pity the sinner and teach God's word 

And walk all his days in the ways of the Lord." 

A light sweet as dreams of love in youth, 

In the child's face grew as he saw the truth ; 

And glad and clear rang the voice of the lad : 

"I'll have just such neighbors as that good man had!" 

—19— 



Marriage. 

''And they twain shall be one flesh" is written 

In the gospels, and in the law likewise 

It is recorded that the wife shall be 

Her husband's help-meet; of his life a part. 

Shall be "bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh,'' 

And for her sake he shall forsake all else 

And cleave alone unto his wife alway. 

When our Lord and Saviour, wishing to "reveal 

The wondrous mystery of the sacred tie 

Betw^een Himself and His beloved Church; 

Himself, He likened unto a bridgroom ; 

His Church, unto the bride, and bade the man 

"To cherish and to love his wife as He 

Had loved and cherished His beloved Church" 

And given up His life for her dear sake; 

And many sluggish minds have hereby caught 

A vision of this sweet and sacred tie 

Because of this fair parable. 

And so the Lord has linked these two great truths 
And stamped them with the name of Mystery. 
And all adown the ages, hand in hand, 
Together they have journeyed, while the world 
Has stood aside and marveled at the bond 
That binds the Church unto her unseen Lord; 
And 3^et have lightly taken on themselves 
The sacred vows that ever shall be type 
Of this unseen and unknown mystery 
At which they oft have caviled. Truly a mystery, 
Yet our social fabric must on this be built; 
On this svv^eet mystery v/e found our homes ; 
Our hoines become the bulwark of the State — 
The Christian home — tvpe of the Home above. 



-20- 



On the Heights. 

From the plain I gaze on thy heights august, 
Till I shrink to an atom of worthless dust, 
Less than a thistle-down 'fore a gust 

From thy canons weird and wild. 
I gaze on thy walls, seamed and rugged and grim, 
And I cry, "What is man that Thou carest for him?" 
And my strength is weakness, my eyes grow dim 

With the tears of a helpless child. 

Then I note the ant with its hurry and care ; 
See the rabbit hide in the sage-brush there ; 
I pluck from my sleeve a falling hair. 

And remember the dear Lord's words. 
How He "maketh wise 'the ant 'neath my tread," 
How ''the feeble coney" is sheltered and fed. 
How He even ''numbers the hairs of my head," 

And His love the whole world girds. 

So I go on my way with a calm heart-beat, 
Till I stand where the earth and the heavens meet ; 
Where the "world's great kingdoms" seem spread at my 
feet, 

And the clouds kiss the mountain's brow. 
Ye are great! Ye are grand! With majesty rife; 
Far lifted above the world and its strife ; 
But God gave to me "the breath of life," 

And so I am greater than thou ! 

And in that wondrous coming day. 

When the heavens shall ''roll like a scroll away," 

While the flames lap up the ocean's spray, 

And the "mountains be moved from their place," 
Then He who hath made ye of rock and sand, 
And gave ye this aspect sublime and grand, 
Shall hold me safe in His loving hand, 

While in peace I behold his face. 

—21— 



Aye ! I feel the quiver of wings to be ; 

The thrill of the flight and the ectasy 

Of sweeping through space; on pinions free 

Cleaving the crystal air. 
And I start to find my tingling feet 
Still pressing the rocks and snow-flowers sweet; 
The body tethering the spirit fleet, 

A.nd the flight but a vision rare. 



What the Sparrows Taught. 

The sky was leaden, the wind sighed low. 

And my heart was bowed with care, 
No peace, and no light my feet to guide, 

And none my grief could share. 
For the sorrow was one I must hide in my heart, 

Lest the world should hea,r its moan. 
And the heavens were as brass to my beating prayers, 

And hov/ could my days go on? 

A shovN^er of shadows across the pane, 

A sound as of v/hirring wings. 
And the snovv^ was flecked with tiny birds. 

Little tv/ittering, chirping things! 
The sparrows ! Did the loving Father cast them forth 

Fresh formed, from His tender hand, 
A sv/eet rebuke for the blind unbelief, 

That forgets His v/ord must stand? 

That He sayeth: If I talce such loving heed 

Of a little worthless waif. 
Shall I not care for your sorer need? 

Oh, Ye of such little faith! 
The sun did not shine or the sorrow flee. 

But svreet peace on my spirit fell ; 
He cares for the sparrows, for mine and for me, 

He careth. and all is well. 

—22— 



Old Noble. 

'He was only a dog," you say, "and old;" 

True ; and that is why I mourn ; 
All his life is so closely linked with the past 

That I miss him at every turn. 
And the days seem set to a minor key. 
And a sense of loss keeps haunting- me. 

Tears, you ask? Nay, I recall too well 

The grandmere's saying, tonight, 
How ''tears for a dumb brute clothes in crape 

Ere the dawn of the new year's light." 
So I shed no tears and make no moan, 
But a bit of the old-time cheer is gone. 

He romped with the children, he guarded the door. 

He followed his master's feet, 
And told his fond love for the wandering one, 

In moanings low and deep. 
And sometimes our tears would start or fall 
When we heard that dumb friend's mournful call. 

He welcomed the wanderer home again, 

He fawned at the coming feet. 
And his joyous call brought the household forth. 

To join in a welcome sweet. 
There will be less cheer when they come as of yore, 
And one friend less at the gate and door. 

When his fair young mistress went out from home 

In a bridal procession gay. 
He frisked and froliced and bounded and barked. 

Till the last merry load drove away. 
Then he came and laid his head on my hand 
As if he were saying, " I understand. 
But I thought it best to make her smile. 
Though my heart was breaking all the while." 

-23— 



He softly followed our feet in the dark 

Wherever they chanced to tread; 
And my heart beats quick and I start with fear. 

When I reach for his shaggy head. 
I reach and look into empty space 
Instead of the half-human, watchful face. 

In nights of lonely watching and fear, 

By some loved one's bed of pain, 
If he came to the door and licked my hand. 

It lessened the weary strain. 
For he seemed to say, with a piteous whine, 
"What weary watchings are yours and mine." 

The tramp and the stranger he held at the gate, 

Till the master called him away. 
His heart was as Vv^hite as the star on his breast. 

And his eye as clear as the day. 
So trusty and true and always the same ; 
"And Noble?" you say; yes, that was his name. 



The Dropped Stitch. 

Just a stitch dropped from the needles. 

But it ran adovv^i the seam ; 
And when I tried to pick it up 

And the little slip redeem. 
It raveled back like a thing bewitched, 

'Neath my eager eye and hand, 
And when I caught the run-away 

I split the threefold strand. 

And when T slowly, stitch by stitch, 
Took out my work to the fiavv. 

And patiently knit it up again, 

That thread vrould twist and draw; 

And the poor, frayed stitch now^ sadl}^ marred 

-24— 



The web fine and firm before ; 
It was rough and worn 'neath my clumsy hand, 
And never was perfect more. 

Just a stitch set wrong in the shaping, 

When thought was on the wing; 
And the shape grew 'neath my careless eye 

Into an uncouth thing. 
A fiaw in the fabric smooth and fine, 

Just a stitch or two awry, 
And you never agam can make the vvcl) 

Quite perfect, if you try. 

*Tt is like an error in life," I cried; 

"One step from the narrow way, 
A moment's turning away from the right, 

And the feet are far astray. 
A heedless act in the dawn of life 

May lead to an endless wrong, 
And follies and sin will a blemish leave 

On life's fabric, fair and strong." 

And tears and repentance cannot undo 

The faults and wrongs of the past. 
A flaw in the work, or sin in the life 

Will leave their mark to the last. 
There is grace to bear life's failures. 

And mercy for the lost. 
But a slip of the feet is oft redeemed 

At a weary, bitter cost. 

O, careless one! with the dancing fe^-t. 

And the merry bubbling laugh. 
Walk warily now, lest in days to come 

Some bitter cup you quaff. 
Though the Christ of the cross can pardon sii 

And man forget and forgive. 
In the depths of your own sad heart, a wrong, 

Will ahvays rankle and live. 

—25- 



All Hail the New Year. 

Welcome, New Year ! We are done with the past, 

Scores of its lessons we failed to grasp; 

But we cast its ashes in memory's urn. 

And with smiling lips to the New Year turn; 

Glad in the hope of a better day. 

Strong in the faith of a truer way. 

May nobler aims and loftier thought 

Be into the New Year's fabric wrought; 

May kindlier counsels and sweeter grace 

Fill the record the New Year's hand shall trace: 

And the wrongs of our lives find endless sleep 

In the folds of the old year's winding-sheet. 



What Do You Bring, New Year? 

What do you bring, New Year, New Year- 

What do you bring to me ? 
Something precious and sweet and dear. 
Or many a sorrowful day and tear? 

Which, O wdiich will it be? 

What do you bring as you come and go? 

What do you bring. New Year? 
Sorrow and sickness, weal or woe? 
Nay, tell me not, for I would not know. 

Lest I doubt and tremble and fear. 

Help me be grateful and glad. New Year : 

Bring the spirit of sw^eet content 
Help me remember our Lord's "good cheer' 
Feeling Him ever strong and near. 
Thankful for blessings sent. 

W^illing to w^alk by God's own light. 

Not caring to understand 
Why I must sometimes v/alk in the night ; 
I can 'Valk by faith and not by sight," 

Since He holds me in His hand. 

-26— 



My Lesson. 

/;; April, 1892, z^'liile preparing an article on the scrip- 
tural injunctioji, "Be of good cheer," a very dear friend 
died. On taking up the unfinished zvork these lines zvere 
zcritten, but "Be of Good Cheer" has never been completed. 

I wrote words of cheer for the mourner, 

For hearts that were stricken and sore ; 
For the weary and heavy laden, 

And bade them be strong as of yore ; 
I bade them to cease from their weeping. 

That Hfe was too short for tears ; 
That the harvest was ripe for the reaping, 

Labor waiting to fiU all the years. 

With fast falling tears I am reading 

My words near a newly-made mound; 
And I find little depth in their meaning. 

The phrases are empty as sound. 
They bring to my heart no healing, 

I find rio balm for my soul, 
And I turn to the Lord, and kneeling, 

Simply ask that He make me whole. 

Let me tarry here 'til my lesson I learn. 

Let me tell Him all my needs ; 
For my empty hands are helpless and weak, 

And my stricken heart still bleeds. 
As one who hath need of comfort ; 

Heavy laden and weary I come. 
To learn at the feet of the Master, 

And for such there is always room. 

Let me hear Flim say, "Whom I chasten 

I hold most precious and dear : 
And with eager love I hasten, 

To make sorrow's meaning clear." 
In the secret of His presence 

There is help and healing still ; 
Let no stranger's hand dare meddle, 

\^'hile He works His sovereign will. 

—27- 



My Valentine. 



My valentine — so my fancy ran 

In the dreamy days of old — 

Should come sometime, on his snow-white steed, 

With spurs and trappings of gold. 

And bear me away like the knights of yore 

To some beautiful, sunny clime ; 

And life would be a dream of bliss 

With my noble valentine. 

One lover came in the garb of youth. 

With the student's cap and gown ; 

With the pen of the ready writer, too. 

And dreams of fame and renown. 

Another came with cap and bells. 

Gay, winsome and debonair, 

With song and jest and witching smiles. 

And craved of my love a share. 

One came with humble mien and voice, 

With a trembling hope and plea ; 

With wealth in his hands and love in his heart. 

And besought on bended knee 

For favor and smiles, but I turned away 

To wait for my gallant knight 

On the snow-white steed, v/ith armor of gold, 

From the land of love's delight. 

Another came in the flush and glow 

Of a manhood strong, complete; 

And my heart fell down like a wounded bird. 

Willing captive at his feet: 

And he bore me away to a humble cot, 

Where midst homely pleasures and care, 

I learned hov/ blest is the commoe lot, 

How sweet its gifts to share. 

—28- 



Long years have flown and my valentine 

Sits content in the twilight now, 

While the shadov/s eastward fall at his feet 

With a halo like snow o'er his brov/. 

But my brave old knight is the lover still, 

As he smiles on m^e and mine. 

For "children's children his old age crowns.' 

And love is our valentine. 



¥/hat Are Birthdays For? 

(Answer to a child's question.) 

What are birthdays for? Just to teach us that life is 

sweet. 
What are birthdays for? Just to show us that Time is 

fleet. 
That furrows and wrinkles are growing 
Under his feet. 

What are birthdays for? Time to tarry with love avvhile ; 
To bask in affection's sunshine and w^arm in her smile, 
While Vv^e let life's cares slip from us 
And hope beguile. 

What are birthdays for? Time for casting dust from our 

feet, 
While Vv'C rest a day by the wayside to count nitt-cu:^ 

sweet ; 
To give thanlcs to the Giver of every good 
As seem.eth meet. 

What are birthdays for? A voice crying 'T.eave the dead 

past ; 
It's sins and it's sorrovv^s sufliceth, it's joys could not last. 
The future is rich in it's promise 

Just in thy grasp." 

—29— 



What are birthdays for? To show that failures need not 

affright, 
If we rise from the stumbling and falling, nearer the 

light. 
The Hand we can reach in the darkness 
Guideth aright. 

What are birthdays for? To keep record of day» and 

years 
W^e have lingered here in the valley 'midst hopes and 

fears, 
'Til the Hand drew us out of the darkness 

And dried our tears. 



The Mother's Wish on Her Son's Birthday. 

W1iat shall I wish for tliee, dearest one, 
As I look down the beautiful years to come? 
Shall I wish thee joy undimmed and unshorn, 
A life without shadow, or sorrow, or storm? 
Ah, no! for a vain and worthless prize 
Is a manhood nurtured 'neath sunny skies. 

Shall I wish thee wealth with its glittering train, 

With its petty power and its sordid gain ; 

Its fawning friends and cumbering care, 

Its golden glitter and sumptuous fare? 

No, No! 'tis only a burnished toy 

And never brings peace or love or joy. 

Shall I wish thee honor and fame instead, 

That men shall bow down at thy coming tread : 

That power and place shall be gilts from thy hand^ 

And that men shall praise thee in many laiids? 

Oh, no! It would nurture self and pride 

And thy guardian angel would weep by thy ^i !c. 

—30— 



Then what shall I wish in my mother heart 
For the precious son, of my life a part? 
What gifts or what graces to crown his days 
And brighten and gladden all life's ways? 
Just a manhood good and pure and strong, 
To stand for the right and withstand the wrong. 

1 would wish thee love, that no gold can buy, 
That can nev«r weary or fade or die; 
A home where peace and plenty dwell, 
Wnose treasures no man can buy or sell; 
A resting place for thy heart and feet, 
•Midst pleasures that make thy life complete. 

Be^t of all I wish for thee peace that flov/s 
Unceasing, though fortune comes or goes; 
A faith that looks up in sorrow's face, 
And in darkness grows in strength and grace ; 
The joys no pen or tongue has told, 
And endless ages can only unfold. 




-31- 



The Lord Is Risen Indeed. 



O, earth awake! O, Heavens smile! O, mortal man be- 
hold! 
Through pain and death and countless cost, 
A Way is opened for the lost, 

By love and grace untold. 

O, sinning one, look up, look up ! Thy Savior lives today ! 
Transgressions in His grave are laid, 
Himself our every debt has paid. 
Our sins are put away. 

O, burdened heart, today He stands, beside thy dreary road ! 
He cheers the heavy laden soul, 
He makes the v»^eak and sin-sick whole, 
He lifts thy weary load. 

O, mourning one. He dries thy tears ; brings balm for 

hearts that bleed; 
The tomb shall hold thy lost no more. 
For He hath opened wide its door, 

The Lord is risen indeed ! 



-32- 



Bring Forth the Lilies Fair! 

Lo, He is risen ! Sweet incense tiing 
Before the footsteps of the King! 

Bring forth the HHes fair ! 
For He on fair Judea's plain, 
From Hhes, wove the sweet refrain, 
That soothes all nation's care and pain 
With comfort rich and rare. 

Lo, He is risen ! Forever more 
Proclaim the news from shore to shore ! 

Grace, hath the victory won ! 
And Love hath trembling sinners sought, 
And righteousness with mercy fraught 
Llath now the great redemption wrought 

The wondrous work is done. 

Press forward then, O eager throng! 
Scatter your lilies ! Beat with song 

The bending heavens today. 
Lo, He is risen ! And death uncrowned, 
Hath lost his sting ; disarmed and bound, 
His broken scepter smites the ground. 

While harmless is his sway. 

O Grave! Where is thy victory now? 
See yonder glorious form and brow. 

Crowned with celestial light. 
O mourning ones, sing, sing, for see ! 
''Like unto Him" your loved shall be 
Immortal through eternity, 

Beyond the grave's short night. 



-33- 



He Is Risen. 

Lo, He is risen ! Earth, awake ! 
And bud and blossom for his sake ! 
Bring forth thine incense for this hour ; 
Show forth the resurrection power; 
Prove that the winter brings no loss, 
That Life, not Death, dates from the Cross. 



The Robins Have Come. 

Xote: — Pioneers say: Robins foUo-tV but do not pre- 
cede civilization, so there zvas much rejoicing over their 
coming. 

I have something sweet to tell you children, scattered 

far and wide, 
'Neath the shadow of the ''golden dome" and by the 

river's side. 
Beside the wintry, storm swept lake, and by the spark- 
ling bay ; 
So I send to each a message from the home so far away. 
Something sweet to tell you all, this wintry, stormy day ; 
The robins have come! 

Now the sunny smiles are rippling over each beloved 

face. 
As fond memories throng unbidden of the dear, old times 

and place. 
Of the thrill that set the house astir, from doorway and 

from hall, 
From the eldest to the youngest, each one trying to 

forestall 
Every other, with the tidings, by the merry, joyous call, 
"O. flic robins have conic!'' 

—34— 



But the mother heart goes drifting back adown the years, 
To the new home on the prairie, and again she sees and 

hears, 
A gleam of crimson plumage and a whir of glancing 

wings, 
A merry chirp and twitter, while a bare branch sways 

and swings ; 
And the sunlight softly glimmers, and her heart with 

rapture sings, 

"O, the robins liave :onie!" 

O, harbingers of springtime ! ^^^w thvy marked the winter's 

flight, 
And made glad the morn's bright dawning with their 

twitter of delight ! 
She can hear them still, in fancy, chirp and sing within 

the nest, 
As she sank in blissful languor, into dreamy, peaceful 

rest, 
With a tiny, dimpled stranger nestled close beside her 

breast, 

For tlic robins liaz'c come. 

Ah, my "bairnics far awa" toda};, the robins still arc 
here, 

And I send you greeting, with the new life of the com- 
ing year. 

The dawn's first rays are stealing forth, with promise of 
the day ; 

"Joy cometh in the morning," night and darkness can- 
not stay. 

All the world is waking into life, the gloom must pass 
away, 

For, the robins have come. 

—35— 



Oh, Ye March Winds. 

Beat, beat 'gainst my window panes, 

Ye March winds, raw and chill ! 
Drift, drift 'round my window and door, 

Ye March snows, as ye will ! 
I smile at your bluster and wrath, 

I laugh at your sobbing pain ; 
For spring follows close on your path, 

And short is your cruel reign. 

Drift, drift, O snowy white threads, 

Thick and fast, 'round temple and brow, 
Ye can never chill my life, 

Or give me one heart pang now; 
For ye only tell of the spring, 

The eternal youth of my years ; 
Tell that time is on the wing, 

And the endless springtime nears. 



Lines to April. 



O, April ! why dost thou weep ? 

Is it that March is away? 
Or because the violets sleep 

And bluebells wait for the May? 
Or because the snowfall yesternight, 

Has hidden the earth's tender green from sight? 

Or can it be thou hast heard 

What May's fondest lover said? 
"I wish that April, the flirt, would go, 
And lovely May come instead. 
Thy lovers are legion and to thee bow low 
While they watch the ferns and crumpled leaves 
grow! 

—36— 



The old to greet thee totter forth, 
And the children's shout is gay 
When they spy the first pale floweret, 
Where the snowdrifts melt away; 
And the brow of care unbends 'neath thy spell, 
And the mourner whispers : "All is well." 

Sweet April ! wipe now thy tears, 

Let the sunbeams kiss thy face ; 
I bow to thy mystic charms. 

And thy witching woodland grace ; 
For flowers, and fragrance, and all things sweet 

Spring forth at a touch of thy dripping feet. 



The Flowers. 



W'hen from chaos and darkness this great earth emerged 
At the word of our God, when the waters had surged 
Wildly back to their fountains and with deafening roar, 
Dashed themselves in wild fury 'gainst the rocks on the 

shore, 
Then God bade the herbs and the grass to spring forth. 
The trees with their fruits, all this wonderful growth 
For man's needs; then His loving hand touched this fair 

world of ours 
And Lo ! Everywhere there sprang forth the flowers. 

Our Saviour and Lord, while here upon earth 

Cried : "Behold ye the lilies !" No toil and no dearth 

Do they know. Clad in garments of beauty, no king on 

his throne. 
Such robing or raiment ever has known. 
And all down the years of this lesson we sing. 
To the children of men from our Heavenly King. 
And the meaning seems plain, for His ow^n hand has 

sealed 
The proof of his love with the flowers of the field. 

—37- 



The festal board spread for some dear, honored guest, 

With flowers and ferns and garlands is dressed ; 

The home-coming one, finds the flower-decked room, 

Their sweetness and beauty light the sufferer's gloom. 

And the wandering one as his feet cease to roam, 

Find the flowers of his childhood to welcome him home. 

The lover, with fancy and passion distraught. 

Sends the "queen of the flowers" to speak out his heart; 

And the maid knows full well what the offering means. 

And folds the sweet gift to her heart while she dreams. 

We crown the sweet bride with flowers most fair, 

They rest on her bosom and perfume her hair, 

And their fragrance ascends vvith the vows she doth 

make 
To love, and to honor, and all others forsake. 
When the heart is too glad, too sad, or too full, 
When the white lips are silent, the poor brain too dull 
To tell out the thoughts that their prison bars beat, 
When every power fails us and beats a retreat. 
We gather them then, God's svv^eet gift of flowers. 
And send them to speak for these full hearts of ours. 

We cull them, for baptism, the bridal and bier; 
They share all our joys, oft bedewed with our tears; 
E'en the sick and the sorroAving smile o'er the flowers, 
They are heart's-ease and balm in this cold world of ours 



-38- 



God's Acre. 

(Memorial Poem.) 

The quaint old name seems a fitting one, 

As I stand by the gates tonight, 
Where, each mound is crowned with blossoms rare ; 

'Tis a fair, and goodly sight. 
A nation holds to its heart once more, 

A memory sadly sweet. 
Of the brave young lives that were offered up 

When they marched the foe to meet. 

And she pays her tribute again to the deeds 

Wrought out with blood and tears ; 
And bears in remembrance those who have slept 

Through all these changing years. 
So we stand, with bowed heads, in "God's acre" again 

To honor the men who have died. 
That sweet peace might forever, and ever. 

In the land of our Fathers abide. 

Then call it "God's Acre," that spot in a land 

Twice rescued from tyrant and foe ; 
Baptized by the blood of our heroes. 

Consecrated to loved ones laid low. 
But twine ye the laurel and ba}^ for the brows 

Of brave men in our midst still today, 
Give the poor mead of honor and praise that is due 

Our country's defenders, and stay. 



-39 



'Our Boys." 



"O, Grandma ! Fve been down town with my pa, 
And there are men marching and the people hurrah ! 
And they called the men 'boys,' and they're not boys at all ; 
Some are old, some are bald, like grandpa, some are tall 
As my papa, some limp, some walk with a cane ; 
They seem good and nice, but lots of them's lame. 
They have drums and flags and make lots of noise, 
And the people all shout : 'Hurrah for the boys !' 

Now, tell me about it, and what it all means ; 

Some laughed and some cried, and some way it seemed 

Like a funeral and a Fourth of July all in one ; 

An' they shook hands and talked when the marching was 

done. 
An' there was one poor, old woman who was shaking just 

so — 
An' she said: 'Oh, my poor Benny! O, why did he go? 
For they starved him to death in that horrible pen.' 
An' I wanted to ask her where, how and when? 

Then I thought Fd ask papa, for he knows so much. 
But there he was talking to a man with a crutch, 
An' he said: "I must go; I can't bear this noise, 
It makes my heart ache ; I miss lots oi the boys." 
There Vv^ere tears in his eyes, and his face is so white, 
I can't bear to ask him. a thing more tonight ; 
But I knew you could tell 'bout the marching and noise, 
An', more than all elhc, vv hy they call old men, boys?" 

Grandma's face was a study; she smiled, but the tears 

Came into her eyes in spite of the years. 

"You knovv about the war?" ''Yes, Sumpter an' Bull Run! 

We play them at school an' have lots of fun." 

''O, it wasn't fun then, wp-t is awful, my son : 

Of all dreaclfrl thirg-^, just the drcadfufcst one. 

—40— 



Yes, dearest, your grandma was young in those days 
And knows all about war, and its sad, cruel ways. 
When Sumpter was fired on the men all Vv^ent wild ; 
All w^anted to fight, e'en the gray-beard and child ; 
The call for volunteers could have been filled in an hour, 
And the quota made up from the land's pride and fiower. 



We knew naught of war, of its hunger and greed, 
We thought vvt had answered our country's great need; 
So we watched our 'Home Guards' in their marching and 

drill, 
And were proud of our boys and their tactics and skill. 
A_nd we stood by the way with flowers in our hair. 
And waved our gay banners with hearts light as air. 



It came like a blow, the country's demand 

For three hundred thousand. Each household band 

Was stricken to dumbness, as one by one 

The boys all enlisted till the warfare was done. 

The women were brave but their hearts were as lead, 

For they dreamed of their loved ones as wounded or de. 

And the camp-fire and flags, and trappings of war, 

Seemed to mock at their sorrow, e'en the partings to mar. 



The boys marched away and the war dragged along, 

Joy went out of the home, and the song 

Struck a minor key always, while a low note of pain 

Ever wailed in our hearts 'neath the bugles' clear straiiw" 

"But why call them boys? I first want to know, 

When their faces are wrinkled and hair white as snovv'.'" 

"Well, we called them 'our boys' when they went out t;) 

fight 
For their flag and then* country, through war's daiker^t 



night. 



-41- 



Some died on the march, some missing, no man can know 
Of their fate, save that they fell with face to the foe. 
Some died in the trenches where they toiled like slaves. 
And the South is all dotted by our boys' lonely graves ; 
Some died of the fever, some in prison and chains. 
Ah! the South has been years wiping out those dark 

stains — " 
''But you haven't told me, grandma, why they call them 

'the hoys!'" 

Grandma's far-away look, and the dignified poise 

Of the silver-crowned head stilled the child's eager worJ, 

For he saw how old memories within her were stirred. 

"Yes, my child, I am trying. You can scarce understand 

JIow we loved and revered them, 'the flower of our land;' 

Hov/ we spoke of them always in tenderest tone. 

Of their untimely death, their graves distant and lone; 

How we thought of them ever as young, brave and strong. 

As they marched to the front with their banners and song; 

How we mourned for the land robbed of manhood's best 

power, 
With its widows and orphans, its most sacred dower; 
How we grieved for the men lost to life and its joys, 
And cherished their memory and called them 'our boys.' " 

"But the boys that didn't die, the men marching down there. 
Why call them the boys when they're not young and fair?" 
"Listen ! The soldiers who came to their old homes once 

more, 
Carried marks of the conflict, hearts heavy and sore. 
Life was broken for them by the clashing of arms. 
They could scarce rest in peace after war's wild alarms ; 
So they clung close together, their hearts' strong desire. 
Is to bear in remembrance their baptism of fire. 
The past and its pathos, the mind oft employs, 
And we can't call them men, and their dead comrades hoys ; 
So one day in the year they forget they are men, 
They march and they sing the old war songs again ; 
Round the graves of their comrades their thinned rank 

deploys, 
And, both living and dead, are once more 'our boys.' " 

—42- 



Mother's Old Quilt. 

When the days were all sweetness, and the violets blue 
Ran riot o'er hillside, and the world was made new 
By shower and sunshine ; and the spring's tender green 
\Vas in crumpled leaf, grass-blade and emerald turf seen ; 
When the birds trilled with rapture and the wild wood-lands 

rang 
With the musical songs that the feathered tribes sang — 
Came the wild crash of cannon, the loud call to arms, 
The shriek of the bugle and war's dread alarms. 

In a rambling, brown farm-house where the maples and 

pines 
Touched hands o'er the roof-tree, and the long slanting lines 
Of sunlight, stole through to a low, home-like room. 
Came the war cry and call, like a knell or death doom. 
There two sons cheered a lonely, white-haired father's heart, 
And they and one daughter of his life were a part ; 
For the mother had faded away from their sight. 
And with her their joy and the home's dearest light. 

Still, he lived for his children, the truth and the right. 
But his heart was sore stricken that terrible night. 
The eldest son rose when the war tiding's came ; 
"My father, I would not go forth for pleasure or fame, 
But my country calls me, you will not bid me stay. 
When my stout arm is ready, my heart strong for the fray. 
You've no need of my service, you will not be bereft ; 
You have daughter and home and your "Benjamin" left." 

The father was brave in that soul-trying strait, 
His heart, too, was loyal, his soul strong and great. 
'Tt shall be as God wills. Go! Shun evil! Be good! 
You're my son and a soldier ; be that, understood." 
And he knew as he gazed on the noble old face. 
That his sire would share in his fame or disgrace. 
Then he girded his loins and marched to the fray 
And left a sad house-hold behind him that day. 



One night when the harvest was gold in the field, 
And the garners o'erflowed with their generous yield, 
The youngest son said, with face reverent and grave: 
"My father! one son to your country you gave, 
Freely gave ; now," he saiJ, "she calls for one more ; 
You would not withhold, or keep strength in store 
That is needed to save the old flag from disgrace — " 
He paused, for the look in the father's pale face 
Awed his heart; with one look he turned slowly away. 
And walked 'neath the pines till the evening was gray. 

But his Benjamin went to the war; and a gloom 
Fell o'er the small household; and each sunny room 
Felt a shadow and chill, and the sister sobbed low 
In her prayers by her bedside ; but a faint after-glow 
Of pride in his sons, did the brave sire sustain, 
Which no woman can feel for her heart's bitter pain. 



But the months wore away and the war dragged along, 

Joy went out of the home, and the song 

Struck a minor key ever ; while a low note of pain 

Sobbed and wailed evermore 'neath the bugle's sweet strain. 



You all know the story of the long, cruel war, 
How they followed the flag like the wise men the star. 
You know of the carnage, the wounds and the pain, 
The long, weary m.arch and the battles again; 
How the boys, worn and sick, fell out by the way, 
Nor crept into camp 'til the dawn of the day. 
How foot-sore and weary, they still struggled through 
More days of hard marching, brave, loyal and true. 



Poor Benjamin! Son of his sire's old age 
His name is recorded on history's page 



44- 



As one of the faithful; but disease racked his frame, 
And he fell from the ranks without glory or fame. 
Then came long weary days, of longing for night, 
And the long nights of pain and the longing for light ; 
The fever-tossed hours, the weakness and chill, 
The sinking of heart and the fainting of will. 
Then a move further north near the borders of home, 
And the hope of a furlough to lighten the gloom ; 
Then the long dragging days of hope oft deferred. 
The watching and waiting for promise or word 
Unfulfilled as before ; but something to cheer 
The lone heart in its weakness and doubting and fear. 

The furlough at last ! He forgot all his pain, 
His weakness and trembling. An out-going train 
Bore him forth from his prison without conduct or aid- 
There were none to be anxious, or care, or afraid. 
Long hours of travel, one night waiting for day, 
When he slept but to dream that his train sped away 
Vnd left him behind, forever to roam 
In a hospital ward, still seeking his home. 



At the old home again! and his sister's fond eyes 
Ever Vvatching his coming, the blue coat espies. 
And fares forth to meet him, but a wan, haggard face 
Looked into her own, where not even a trace 
Of the brother she loved, could her famished eyes see. 
And she shrank from his presence, and turning to flee 
The beloved voice hears, the sam.e tender tone, 
And quick as a thought to his fond arms has flown. 

wShe guides him, white, trembling, and vv'cak, to the door. 
He crosses the threshold and sinks to the floor. 
In the strong, tender arms of the sister and maid, 
The frail form is lifted, on his mother's bed laid; 
And once more at home, v/ith his sire bending o'er, 
Smiles feebly, and closing his eyes knows no more. 

-4i— 



Wildly sobbing, his sister rains tears on his face, 
Voices call on his name and he drifts back apace; 
He thinks it a dream — he has dreamed thus before — 
And he cares not to wake to his sorrow once more. 

But the life-blood at last, throbs slowly again 

And he takes up his burden of sickness and pain, 

But the wan, wintry light on his thin, ghastly face, 

Makes more haggard his features, leaving scarcely a trace 

Of the strong robust man, the soldier, the son, 

And they think in their hearts that his race is just run. 

He clutches the bed-clothes ; he opens his eyes ; 

He gazes around with a wistful surprise. 

While the maid, arms akimbo and tears falling fast, 

Whispers : "He's comin' to, but I'm sure he can't last — 

See ! He's pickin' the kivers ! a mighty bad sign ; 

He don't hear or sense nothin' ; see how his eyes shine !" 

"Can it be? Can it be?" — his voice faint and weak — 

First his hands, then loved faces, his eyes dimly seek ; 

"Can it be?" v/ailed his sister in her an.^uish and pain, 

"We have found the dear boy but to lose him again ?" 

"Be silent, my daughter, we juay, who can tell, 

Have a look or a message or word of farewell." 

"Can it be?" and the trembling hands hold aloft 

The old-fashioned coverlet, old, worn and soft, 

Of grandmother's weaving, a sacred heirloom, 

Tlie last v/ork of her hands e'er she went to the tomb. 

A gift to his mother, treasured many long years, 

With fond, tender care, oft bedewed with her tears, 

Still carefully cherished in memory of both; 

And the reverent love had grown with his growth, 

'Til it stood for the love of the ages gone by, 

The past and the present, his fond eyes descry. 

"Can it be?" — His voice soars aloft like the lark's morning 

lilt, 
"Can it be I'm back home, under mother's old quilt?" 

—46— 



Soft laughter and tears in the sweet, homehke room 
And camphor, hot broth, egg-nog, and each one 
Vies with each other to serve, and the fright 
Faded out into joy, Hke the morning from night. 
Smile not at our soldier, to his manhood no shame ; 
No blot on his courage, escutcheon, or fame, 
That when stricken in body he was cast down in soul, 
And his heart sought his home as the needle the pole. 

All honor to our soldiers ! Give them glory and fame, 
Who fought for their flag and their country's good name 
They were loyal and brave ; they fought to the hilt, 
But were glad to get back under Mother's Old Quilt. 



Memorial Flowers. 

(Extract from a poem read on Decoration Day at Letts.) 

Let rne tell you a tale : Once, long years ago, 

The trees of this great, fruitful land, bending low 

With the weight of their blossom.s were chilled by a breath 

From the south-land; and then, like an omen of deatn, 

Rose a lov/, angry murmur, that grevv^ to the blast 

Of a bugle sharp and clear; and then followed fast 

The earth-rending sound, the thundrous roar 

Of death-belching cannon, on sea and on shore, 

And the old flag was lowered and trailed in the dust — 

The old flag Vv^e love vv^as mocked and accursed ; 

And the earth 'neath our feet seemed to rock on that day. 

When its stars and its stri|)es vvcnt down in the fray. 

The Xorth held her breath just one moment, and then — 
There sprang to the rescue tens o' thousands of men ; 
And sweethearts, and mothers, and wives with a smile. 
Rose to gird on the sword, v/ith hearts breaking the v.hile ; 
And bravely their best to their country they gave, 

—47— 



To rescue the flag and the union to save. 

And they wreathed our fair colors with flowers, and then — 

Prayed Our Father to bring back the loved ones again. 

And many a soldier, next his heart wore a spray 

Of roses, or lilies, as he marched to the fray. 

very earth shook 'neath the firm, rhythmic tread 
Oi a nubt, marching southward, and the flowers o'erhead, 
Shivering fell from the boughs, while terror and dread 
Chilled the warm hearts at home, that in sorrow and gloom. 
Were waiting the news that surely must come 
Of carnage and slaughter, of the foul prison pen, 
Of lonely graves hollowed by mountain and glen. 
And a great nation's treasures of manhcjod and gold, 
Was laid on the altar with anguish untold. 
Then came days that were dreary with doubts and with 

fears, 
Long days that knew* only a passion of tears. 
Nights whose long weary hours like years dragged away. 
While waiting to hear from the battle or fray. 

At the front there was danger, privation and pain ; 
Sickness, wounds and homesickness, and the sight of the 

slain ; 
The long, weary march ; the heat and the cold. 
The prison and hunger and suffering untold, 
While at home men as loyal — aye, as fearless and brave. 
Of substance and treasure and influence gave, 
The law to m.aintain, to feed orphans and poor, 
And hold in restraint the foe at the door. 

^ ^ -^ 

And some were brought back on their shields, and the bier 
Was wrapped in the old flag, and their comrades stood near. 
While muffled drum sobbed out the stricken heart's woe. 
Which no language can speak and no stranger may know. 
And some with sore wounds and deep scars came again ; 
Some with fever-scorched veins in bon'dage to pain ; 
And the very heavens wept o'er the slaughter and woe 
That rose like a flood our good land to o'erflow. 

—48- 



But the red tide of war stayed its ravage at last; 
The foe ground its a,rms, and the wires choking fast 
Bore the message of peace o'er the land; and the loar 
Of cannon shook the earth from center to shore, 
While the prison doors opened, and the old flag unfurled, 
Bore the tidings of peace to a war stricken world. 
And the brave boys in blue sang, ''O long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave." 



Was the struggle in vain? Nay, the union stood forth 

Clad in strong mail of right, on foundations of truth ; 

The manacles fell from three millions of slaves; 

But the land had as dower, countless thousands of graves. 

So the nation as mourner comes with laurel and bay. 

And a sweet wealth of flowers on Memorial Day, 

To crown her dead heroes, and remember they gave 

Their lives and their all, their country to save ; 

Bring, O, people ! your flowers with song and with prayer, 

— To each soul a sweet token of God's love and care ; — 

Bend low with your burden by the flag on the grave, 

Their mission today is to honor our brave. 



A Miracle. 

A warm, soft halo o'er the tree-tops steals, 

A breath of balm comes from the open fields, 

A low, mysterious murmur in the air. 

The voice of spring birds piping here and there ; 

Wee spears of green beneath the brown grass everywhere. 

A night of tinkling rain along the eaves ; 

Upon the steaming earth a south wind breathes ; 

A soft unfoUing of the crinkled leaves 

And then — a burst of sunshine, swift as tliought, 

And lo ! God's wondrous miracle of spring is wrought. 

—49— 



Our Pioneer Dead. 

"What hath God wrought?" Lift thine eyes to behold 

This goodly, fruitful land. 
Then let the long years, one by one fall from sight, 

Like grains of shifting sand. 
Blot out the groves, the farms, the homes ; 
See, a windswept plain where the red man roams. 

See the boundless prairie, the waving grass, 

Over all a shimmering haze; 
See the treeless, birdless, endless space, 

That holds the weary gaze. 
See the lonely cabin, or shanty small, 
That shelters and holds the pioneer's all. 

Hear the lank prairie wolf howl 'round the door. 

See the will-o-the-wisp's ghostly flame, 
Hear the tempest scream 'round the tiny home. 

See the prairie fire's frightful gleam ; 
Feel the earth thrill and shake 'neath its flame-winged flight, 
See strong hands tremble and cheeks pale with fright. 

Oh ! the long, lonely days and the weary nights 

Of sickness and sorrow and pain ; 
Oh ! the aching, shivering limbs and head ; 

Oh ! the burning hands and brain ; 
Oh ! the longing for rest in some shady nook. 
For one long, cool draught from the pebbly brook ; 

For the cool, dewy orchard and ripening fruit. 

For the scent of the pines on the hill. 
For the sweet mayflower and wintergreen red 

That grew in the v/oods by the mill ; 
For the old home faces, loved and fair ; 
For the house of God, and its songs and prayer. 

—SO— 



Oh, the mortal pang in some father's heart, 

When a loved one faded away ; 
No pastor, no church, no dear old friends, 

To minister comfort or pray 
When some grief-stricken heart sent up the cry, 
"Why bring us out here in the desert to die?" 



Was there nothing but sorrow and sickness and pain ? 

No light in the somber gloom? 
No joy in the heart, no hope in the soul, 

No cheer in the pioneer's home? 
Yea, courage that ever remembered shall be, 
And deeds that the angels smiled to see. 



They shared with the stranger their scanty store, 

As if sharing multiplied bread; 
The "widow's cruse" was unfailing and sure. 

And the orphan sheltered and fed. 
And the sick freely nursed with a gentle hand, 
By the very poorest within the land. 



Were they strong of spirit and brave of soul? 

Ask the children that grew 'round their feet. 
Did their sacrifice find a recompense, 

Or a just reward, as was meet? 
Life thine eyes again, see on every hand, 
Their children's children possessing the land. 



Yea, an orchard has grown for each sore heart pang, 

A home for each severed tie, 
And for each lonely grave 'neath the prairie sod, 

A church spire points on high. 
And the vale where the wild deer and Indian trod, 
Resounds with the songs of the children of God. 

—51— 



Yea, the dark days fled, and the children can tell 

Of the joy o'er the first fields of grain; 
Of the rosy cheeks and the bounding feet, 

That followed the hours of pain; 
Of the fruitful land with its rich, deep loam, 
The growing herds and the pleasant home. 

From the scattered homes grew the commonwealth ; 

The atoms were welded in one. 
And many a fight 'twixt the wrong and the right, 

The pioneer's hand begun. 
While they simply held fast to principles true. 
They builded far better than they knew. 

The teacher who taught in some ''upper room," 

Saw never the crown of light. 
That decks the brow of Iowa now, 

As the banner state, by right. 
For ignorance veiled her face and fled, 
Before the pioneer teacher's tread. 

The farmer who stood with his bread at stake 

And refused the fiery bowl 
To the reaper, who claimed it as part of his wage. 

Had the martyr's strength of soul ; 
And his noble stand, with his all in his hand 
Is endorsed by the ballot today, of the land. 

The white-haired man with his saintly face. 

Who prayed o'er their coflined dead. 
Was the "seed of the church" we love today, 

As Christ is its founder and head. 
And his pleading prayers as they passed 'neath the rod, 
Were links 'twixt their fainting hearts and God. 



—52- 



They rest from their labors, the struggle is o'er; 

They know naught of toil or strife; 
The longing for the pebbly brook is hushed, 

By the side of the "River of Life;" 
They see their work now by the light of day, 
And know why their feet were led this way. 

Thev need not this chrism of tears today, 

They heed not our paeans of praise. 
Their ears have grown dull to the plaudits of men, 

As they list to the heavenly lays ; 
And He who hath led them through storm and sun, 
Has welcomed them home with a glad 'Svell done !" 



A Vision of the Night 



r\s Night furls her sable wings over the earth. 
And hushed are the sounds of grief and mirth^ 
While the fire burns lov^ on the silent hearth, 

A vision fair comes to me. 
A vision of white robed mothers, there, 
Kneeling by trundle-bed, crib or chair, 
For their children, pleading the Father's caic; 

Their earnest faces I see. 

Some with a mingling of joys and fears, 
Some shining glad, 'neath a rain of tears. 
Some, touched by the dread of coming years 

Like a rose bowed 'neath the dew. 
Some with faces marred with care, 
With tear drenched cheeks and silver hair, 
Wringing their hands in anguished prayer ; 

Oh ! does one such pray for you ? 

—53— 



O, sons and daughters tempted to stray 
Out of the ''straight and narrow way," 
Think of the mothers kneeling to pray, 

For you, and for you, to-night ! 
O Father, bless the white-robed throng; 
Give them a faith unfailing and strong; 
Change their pleadings and prayers to praise and song, 

With the dawn of the morning*s light. 



Baby's First Laugh. 

The brooklet's ripple, the coo of a Jove, 

The tinkle of silver bells, 
The joy of the angel's song above, 

And the music from fairy dells — 
All melted and mingled in one gladsome lay, 
Might be liken'd to baby's first laugh today. 



The Little Red Shoes on the Hearth. 

The fire-light dances on ceiling and walls, 
It lights the dark nooks in the parlor and halls. 
It flashes and gleams like the spirit of mirth. 
O'er a little, worn pair of red shoes on the hearth. 

Each wee, shabby toe has a tilt of its ovv-n, 
Sign, certain and sure, they a-e nearly out-growni, 
With scarcely a remnant of beauty or w^orth, 
Yet we tenderly touch the red shoes on the hearth. 

For the heart of the house-hold is held today, 
By a dear little tyrant's unlimited sway: 
E'en grandma bows down like the veriest serf 
To kiss and caress, the red shoes on the hearth. 



Tucked away ir a snowy white nest of a bed, 
With the sunny curls straying around the fair head, 
Lies the dear, dimpled darling, in dreams of the blest, 
While the little red shoes on the hearth have a rest. 

O dear, little feet, if ye must go astray. 
And wander far out of the straight, narrow way, 
Into the paths of sin, sorrow and dearth, 
May ye never outgrow the red shoes on the hearth. 

Dear Little Sweetheart! 'Midst loss or midst gain, 
Still keeping step to love's sweet refrain. 
May the very best man, the salt of the earth, 
Grow out ot the little red shoes on the heanli. 



What Shall We Name the Baby? 

Shall we give him the name of some statesman, 

Some warrior, or poet or sage, 
And hope that he rival their greatness, 

With records on history's page? 

Shall we name him for Paul, the apostle. 
Or Stephen who died for the Lord? 

For John, the beloved disciple. 
Or Peter who wielded the sword? 

Shall we give him the fond young father's 
Or the white-haired grandpa's, pray? 

Or a love- knot of both together, 
To crown our darling today? 

Oh, what name can we give the bab^. 

That will match the blue of his :yesr 
The eyes that prison the sunshine. 

And have stolen their hue from the skies. 



-55— 



Or what name will match the shiping 

Of his ruddy, golden hair, 
Or the rosy lips sweet smiling, 

Or the tint of the cheek so fair? 

What name to guard the whiteness 

Of the little stranger soul, 
To keep lite's sweetness and brightness 

Till it reach the heavenly goal? 

Only one dear name|| has such fitness, 
(And that no man should bear), 

To make the soul's completeness, 
And keep it white and fair. 

So we give the babe to His keeping — 
No matter the name he may wear — 

For the Lord will give for the seeking, 
A name* that no other may share. 



IIActs 4-12. 
*Rev. 2-17. 



The Mother's Wail. 



They have shorn my baby's curls av/ay 

Over there in that dreadful tovvn ; 

And the father stood by while the deed was done. 

Then stripped off the dainty gown 

And decked him out in a soldier suit. 
With buttons of gold, and a cap. 
And brought back to me a little man. 
Too big to sit in my lap. 

—56- 



And all day long he has strutted and worked- 

Like a man — in his new disguise; 

And all day long there was pain in my heart, 

And unshed tears in my eyes. 

But the evening shades are falling now, 

And he sits and nods and blinks, 

While his head droops in a weary way, 

And I know just what he thinks. 

He was never a man before, you see ; 
And it puzzles his little head, 
To know v/hat to do and hov/ to begin 
To put a big man to bed. 



Come here to my arms, you poor little chap, 

Ere your bonny blue eyes are hid — 

"Yes, you may kiss your Papa goodnight," 

For he knew not what he did — 

When he tried to make a man of my babe ; — 

Come ! here is the nightie-gown ; 

W^e'll take off the cap and the soldier togs, 

And rock-rock to sleepy-town. 

Say "Now I lay me," precious child, 

Right here at mother's knee ! 

And ril teach you another prayer in the morn, 

If you go away from me. 

Poor little shorn lamb ! Cuddle close to my heart ! 

How I miss your curls 'gainst my face — 

Though a man and a soldier you are vvelcome still 

To the old-time resting place. 

He lies in my arms, asleep and at peace. 

So rosy and dimpled and sweet, 

And I pat the shorn head, and kiss and caress 

The dear, chubby hands and feet. 



-57 



He is mine! I hold him close and fast, 

With a passionate protest 

'Gainst the changes the flying years must bring, 

And a heart full of unrest. 

They may give him a pony and spurs, some day 

When a man — gold and high degree ; 

They may give him the zvorld, but they must not take 

My baby away from me. 



Don't Fall, Little Man 



''Don't fall, little man! Don't fall!" is the cry, 

That rings through the house today, 
For baby is learning to walk, and we fly 

To make the path smooth in his way. 
And while mother's arms tempt him, the whole household 

clan, 
Cry in concert and chorus, "Don't fall, little man !" 

There cometh a time, little man, little man. 

When mother will not be there ; 
With the tempter nigh, and the father afar. 

And none to caution or care ; 
When the powers of darkness form rear-guard and van. 
Will you waver, and falter, and fall, little man? 

Yea, you will, if some power from above or without 
Keep you not, in that strength-testing day. 

When the lusts of the flesh and the foes of your soul. 
Join their forces in battle array. 

Oh, flee to the Helper! His wondrous plan, 

Can cleanse, and can save, and can keep, little man. 



-58 



'Be a Good Boy. 



The little lad is going today 

To the town, with his father, far away 

•From his mother's arms, and o'er and o'er 

She has smoothed his curls, and now once more 

She kisses his lips, and cheek and brow, 

In a passion of tenderness, and now. 

Wise precepts would teach her child, Init instead, 

"Be a good bov." was all she said. 



He is going away to school ; heart-sore 
His mother now longs as never before 
For some helpful thought, or warn in o- word. 
And her mother heart to its depth is stirred. 
She looks on her boy so gay and fair, 
So winsome and merry and deboniar, 
VVith his beaming face and buoyant tread. 
But '"Be a good boy," was all she said. 



The world is calling him now and he fears 

No evil or ill — for the beautiful years 

Are crov/Hed with visions of power and gold, 

Of fame and fortune within his hold. 

His motbf^r in vain would plead "r>cwarc. 

Things ar^^ not all good though great and fair; 

]\q noble! 1'rust God!" But heV heart is lead 

An.d "Be a good boy," was all she said. 



Years have con.ie and gone, ho has wandercci 
But his mother's love, like a guiding star. 
Has lured him back ; now his restless feet 
]\Tust roam again ; and the farewells sweet 



59— 



Must be said; and the mother's soul now cries 
*'0 son of my heart, Awake ! Arise 
From drifting and dreaming! Be wise, Be wise!' 
But softly stroking the snow-flecked head 

"Be a good boy," was all she said. 
Oh, poor mother-heart ! Oh, poor dumb lips ! 
Thy message has flown to thy finger tips, 
And the tender clasp and thy eager eyes 
Give speech to the words, dumb lips denies; 
Like a bugle call from his long-lost youth, 
It thrills his heart as some mighty truth 
That has lifted his soul to a martial tread, 
When "Be a good boy," was all she said. 



Mother's Will-o'-th'Wisp. 



Sorting school books old and grim, 
Scanning names and dates grown dim. 
Work 'round which fond memories play 
Fills the mother's hands today.. 
One small reader, dog-eared, worn. 
Pencil-marked, begrimed and torn, 
Smiles or tears, ah ! which shall win. 
As the mother looks within? 

Not a name but zig-zag lines 
All around the margin twines ; 
"If my name you zvish to see, 
Turn the page to thirty -three." 
Swiftly turns the torn leaves o'er. 
Finds the page and reads once more : 
"If you seek for name of mine, 
Turn to number ninety-nine." 

-60- 



School-boy wit ! — an age condensed 
Surely here is recompensed 
By the mother's puzzled face. 
Seeking still a clue to trace 
To the child, or elf, or sprite, 
Gliding just beyond her sight. 
''If my name yon do not find 
Shut the hook and never mind/' 

Will-o-th-wisp in blouse of blue, 
Mother has at last caught you. 
Giggling laugh and dancing feet. 
Merry shout o'er joke complete, 
Sees and hears, but caught at last ; 
Wants to hold you close and fast, 
Take you on her lap once more, 
Sort the l^ulging pocket's store — 

Wash and kiss the smutty face. 
Touch the short curls into place, 
Button shoe and smooth the tie, 
Hear you talk about "Hi-spy," 
Call you ''rogue" and ''little sham," 
Give you cookies, bread and jam — 

;|c "^ * =1= =;: ♦ >!< 

Pauses, smiles, while tear-drop falls. 
Bread and iam in college halls!!!!! 



— 61~ 



The Mythical Spoon. 

(Written on the occasion of the marriage of her son, to 
zvhom the poem refers.) 



There's a German proverb old and quaint, 

With mythical meaning rife; 
If a man grows rich — thus the proverb goes — 
If into his coffers silver flows, 

If blessings crown his life — 
When his presses o'erflow and his garners are full, 

When no mildew, blight or drought 
Falls on meadows or wheat or corn, 
They say of that man, "He was surely born 

With a silver spoon in his mouth." 

And I tell you a tale today that shall prove 

The prophet's age is not past; 
That seers can still tell who holds this boon 
Of the gift of the mythical silver spoon, 

In his sturdy, childish grasp. 



To a cottage home 'neath the whispering pines 

Came a black-eyed babe one day. 
And though the seventh of the household clan, 
They bade him welcome — the little man — 

For he came prepared to stay. 

And he breathed the balsamic scent of the pines 

And romped on the new mown hay, 
And the robin's chirp and the hum of the bee, 
The meadow-lark's song and the squirrel's glee, 
Made his glad years a round-e-lay. 

—62— 



But the mother of all that gladsome flock 

Had a fancy all her own, 
That not only for them was the best of food, 
But every one of her little brood 

Must be fed with a silver spoon, 



There was German silver and plated ware 

For the household's daily needs; 
But some frail old silver of pattern rare 
Was set aside as the children's share, 

And with which the baby to feed. 
And over and over she said to the maids 

Each morning, night and noon: 
"The richest of milk and the sweetest brown bread 
For the children, and when the babies are fed, 

Use ahvays a silver spoon." 



A German neighbor that mother had, 

A woman straight and tall. 
With a secress eye and a much ruffled cap. 
Trim, straight skirts and an ample lap 

For the children, one and all. 
A staunch, true friend she proved indeed 
To the burdened young mother, alway ; 
'Midst trials or loss, pleasure or gain. 
In days of ease or by beds of pain, 

A comfort and staff and stay. 



And she made a feast for the black-eyec /ad, 

And his mother — an after-thought — 

For he was the royal guest and he knew 

That for him the feast and the sugar-plums grev, 

And for him the bon-bons were bought. 

To his childish eyes this German home 

—63— 



Was a wonderful place to be ; 
With the clock, it's long weights hanging down, 
The treasure chest, old, worn and brown, 

That came across the sea. 

On books piled high on a wooden chair. 
The prince was throned at the feast ; 
And the coffee-bread and little pies, 
Were marvels and treasures, in the eyes 
Of the honored child and guest. 
The feast began — he lifted his spoon — 

It was pewter, worn and old ; 
'Tss is not a tilver 'poon," he cried. 
As the quaint old thing he sternly eyed. 

While his mother grew hot and cold — 

And her cheeks were red and white by turns. 
As she sought his hand to stay, 
And the spoon from his sturdy grasp to wrest — 
But quick as thought toward the treasure chest. 

The spoon sped on its way. 
Not a muscle moved in the hostess' face 
To show she was troubled or wroth ; 

"Och!" she cried; "Never mind" — as sweet as the morn- 
"Dis little man you see was born 

Mit a silver spoon in his mouth." 



The hostess' tact broke the awful spell, 

And drove the clouds away; 

But the wilful child had a lesson to learn. 

That would serve him well at many a turn 

On life's road, ere the day was done ; 

And in home-ward walk in the clover-sweet dusk, 

Learned a law — like the Persians and Medes, 
That far above silver and service fine. 
Is the tender thought and the love divine 

That fits all stations and needs. 



-64- 



And the mother pondered the words in her heart 

As only true mothers can, 
And wondered much if the saying quaint, 
Meant her boy would grow up a sinner or saint, 

Or only a common-place m.dn. 
But he went on his way a strange blending of each, 

And childhood sped all coo soon ; 
With school and college, travel and toil, 
But back of all, like a glittering foil, 

Shone the mytnical silver spoon. 

Through months of sickness, and days of pain, 

'Midst darkest night, and saddest noon 
The clouds would part and her longing eyes 
Would catch a glimpse of shining skies, 

And a gleam of the mythical spoon. 
Now, richly dowered with love and health, 
(With visions of labors crowned with wealth), 

And a bride from the sunny south ; 
His mother remembers the promise of morn. 
Knows now full well her boy was born 

With a silver spoon in his mouth. 



His Brother's Keeper. 



Does thy brother stumble oft? 

Bear him by thy faith aloft ; 

Make his woes and w^eakness thine, 

'Til the heavens above him shine; 

Why should strength be given thee, 

Save to succor such as he? 

God ne'er gives His grace for naught, 

He will ask: "A\'hat hast thou wrought?" 

—65— 



Higher Arithmetic. 

(Written in the back of an account book presented to 
her son.) 

Add virtue, knowledge, temperance, 

To faith born from above; 
Add patience, godliness and grace ; 

To brotherly kindness, love. 

Subtract all malice, wrath and wrong 

All envyings and strife, 
All evil, fraud, deceit and guile. 

From lips and heart and life. 

Then multiply your kindly deeds 

To every brother man ; 
His weakness pity and forgive — 

Your life is but a span. 

Divide your substance with the poor, 

Hold out the helping hand ; 
True he may scorn your sage advice. 

Your alms he'll understand. 

To sum up all this higher creed, 

Be manly, strong and true ; 
Walk in the light of holy truth. 

Your mother watches you. 



—66- 



Which One? 

It used to be just Catherine, . . 

And she a wholesome girl, 
With common sense, and neat plain dress. 

Without a frill or curl. 
She spun and wove and washed and cooked, 

Without a sigh or 'plaint ; 
She milked the cows and butter made, 

And ne'er was known to faint. 

But later on the name was Kate, 

And she a strong, tall lass ; 
An athlete, too, and college bred, 

And none could her surpass. 
She rode a horse and rowed a boat. 

Played golf and mowed the lawn, 
Perfect in health and strength and will. 

And graceful as a fawn. 

And nozv the name is Katheryn, 

A miss with red-gold curls ; 
With bright blue eyes and merry laugh, 

A very pearl of girls. 
She works and plays with right good will, 

A student like the rest; 
But still finds time to love us all. 

I think I like her best. 



—67- 



Mae. 

I know a little maiden with merry eyes and face, 
With a laugh that is like music, and a charming, win- 
some grace ; 
But when her name is spoken, sweet visions always rise 
Of singing birds and breath of balm, and sunny, smiling 
skies. 

You think of violets and ferns, of mossy wildwood dells, 

Of a hidden nook of loveliness wherein a fairy dwells; 

Of budding flowers and tender green of grass and leaf 
and vine, 

And all the springtime charms and grace of some en- 
chanted clime. 

Her eyes are like the midnight skies with many stars 
aglow, 

And from her tender, loving heart sweet streams of kind- 
ness flow; 

And yet 'tis not because of this that springtime fancies 
play 

A])Out the blossoms and the birds — you see her name is 
. May. 



She spells it quite another way, to me it sounds the same 
sweetest thougl 
maiden's name. 



And sweetest thoughts still cluster 'round the little 



The Empty Nest. 

Lovingly dedicated to my nestlings.— A. B. L. 

I stood by the fruit laden vines today, 

'Neath a cherry tree's welcome shade, 
And my wandering eyes spied a tiny nest, 

Some little bird had made ; , ^- , 

How cunningly builded ! How close and hrm ! 

And wrought with such skill and care ; 
And I stood on tip-toe, with smiling lips, 

To look at its treasures fair. 

Would it be a handful of dainty eggs. 

Or birdlings, wee and small? 
And I eagerly peered o'er its beautiful brim. 

To find— just nothing at all. 
An empty nest ! I held in my hand. 

The fabric so wondrous fine. 
And my heart gave a sickening throb of pain, 

It was so like a nest of mine. 

There's a wee empty crib and a trundle-bed, too, 

Set away in a silent place; 
And no tousled curls press the pillow at night. 

And no rosy, smiling face 
Peers over the rail, or the curtains part, 

For the morning kiss and smile. 
And I miss the patter of little feet 

And the prattling tones, the while. 

O hush foolish heart, and make no moan ; 

Is not fruit far better than bloom? 
Thy birdlings are living and trying their wings. 
' Just out in the world's wade room. 



What if some bask 'neath a southern sun, 

And one far northward flies, 
And in a new home is a newer crib, 

And a pair of saucy eyes? 

What if one is delving in books at school, 
Or the "Baby" stoops down for a kiss; 

Is that any cause for a desolate heart, 
And lips that quiver like this? 

They will flit in and out as the years go by, 

They will turn to thee as a shrine; 
And just as of old, naught will be complete 

Without a ''well done" of thine; 
They will come with the first spring song of the birdis, 

They will come with the Christmas chimes, 
They will come with their joys and hopes and cares, 

They will come at all seasons and times. 

And the hearth must be bright, and lips must smile. 

And the home be full of cheer, 
And thy feet keep step with their youthful pace, 

Through each beautiful, coming year. 
And thy days shall be full of a service sweet. 

And an influence, subtile and fine, 
May mould to thy wish, and round to the full, 

The lives of these loved ones of thine. 



—70 



House or Home? 



"It is such a plain old house," she said, 

"With its ceilings quaint and low. 
With its windows small and its narrow hall 

In the fashion of long ago." 
She was not a proud and haughty dame, 

This "mistress of the manse" so old, 
She had only failed that morn to "count 

Her mercies," more precious than gold. 

But her servant, Fire, heard the fretful plaint. 

And slipping his bonds one day. 
He smouldered and crept and silently ate 

The sound old timbers away. 
'Til with belching smoke, and crackhng laugh 

And forked tongues of fire. 
He flung his blazing banner aloft. 

Still mounting higher and higher. 

And cries of terror and frenzied prayers 

Went out on the fragrant air, 
And darkening smoke and lurid flame. 

Made weird the morning fair. 
"It was here I came as a bride." she moaned 

While her shaking limbs grew weak ; 
"It was here the children were born and reared 

And a pallor o'erspread her cheek. 

"It was here my babe lay white and cold, 

A pale, waxen form of clay, 
And from yonder room, where burns the fire. 

They bore my darling away. 
T ':eld my loved ones with clingmg arms, 

While my heart was like to break ; 
And I learned that day what a shadow dark, 

A tiny, v/hite casket can make." 



-71- 



"My husband's hands have planted these trees, 

Will the wild flames blacken and scorch? 
Will the warm fireside and "chamber of peace" 

Melt before yon lurid torch? 
Will the children's feet never cross again 

The threshold worn and old?" 
And her heart was torn with cruel pain, 

And her trembling hands grew cold. 

But hurrying feet and eager hands 

Quick as thought to the rescue came, 
And flooded and beaten and driven back 

Was the cruel, hungry flame. 
And writhing and hissing in baffled wrath, 

The hideous Fire fiend died; 
And though marred and blackened, still strong and safe, 

The "plain old house" shall bide. 

And a woman weary and pale and spent, 

Knelt in transports of praise that night, 
With caressing hands on the dear old walls, 

That had sheltered through darkness and light; 
And her grateful thanks as she shuddering thought 

How the wild flames crackled and glared, 
Was never once for "the plain old house," 

But the ''dear old home" that zvas spared. 



—72- 



A Mid-Summer Dawn. 

A soft mellow tint in the eastern sky, 

A paling of stars in the west; 
A tremulous breeze 'midst the forest leaves, 
And a drowsy trill from a nest, 
Waking an echo here and there, 
Thrilling with music the morning air. 



Pale shadowy shapes by the river side — 
And the billowy hills between — 

Slowly floating away to the blue beyond, 
May be guardian angels I ween, 

Who nightly Vv'atch o'er the children of men. 

Thence back to the heavenly courts again. 

And the fleeting phantoms' snowy white wings 

Were rosy flushed as they fled ; 
While the air was ravished with incense sweet 

From their shimmering garments shed; 
And the trailing mists that melted with night, 
Were filmy veils left behind in their flight. 



There Vvxre holden eyes saw naught but clouds, 
And the fog that the morning sun enshrouds. 



A Fragment. 

"All earthly things are iiieonipletc. 
Yea, beloved, dost not see. 
This incompleteness could not be. 
If some time and some place, 
This incompleteness did not prove 
The overflowing of His love, 
The fullness of ?Iis grace. 

—73— 



A Picnic Poem. 

(Written by Mrs. Jas. R. Letts and read at the Gazette 
Correspondents Picnic, June 16, 1905.) 

LINES TO THE READY WRITER AND YE SCRIBE. 

When "ye editor" placed my poor name on his list 
For this jubilee day, I could hardly desist 
From saying him "Nay;" but on second thought, 
I saw that the mischief already was wrought; 

For my name left out, 

Would leave friends in doubt 
As to time, or to talents, good will or desire ; 
And perchance, one voice missed from the jubilee choir. 

In great tribulation I sought for my Muse, 
Right sure that her help she could never refuse ; 
But alas ! on a summer vacation her feet 
Had strayed to some far-away, quiet retreat. 

And her poetic treasures, 

And metres and measures. 
Were all locked away, safe and snug for the summer, 
Lest some poor worried mortal might disturb her slumber. 

I was turning away, with a sorrowful face. 
When a sly little elf, left in charge of the place, 
Popped out of the closet with a wink of his eye. 
Cried: "I'm sure I can help you ; just give me a try." 

And he bowed, and he smiled, 

And my senses beguiled 
Into thinking, perhaps, he had learned from my Muse 
Some arts, or some charms, of which I could uf^e. 



—74- 



Then he brought forth a jingHng, crooked, old rhyme 
And I cried, "This won't do, I must have something fine 
(I am writing for writers who know tune and time), 

I must have rhythm flowing, 

And metaphors glowing, 
Something stately, and strong, to clothe a great thought 
With poetic measure, and meter in-wrought. 

Then he tilted his nose, the abominable elf! 
" 'Tis this or nothing, so just please yourself.'* 
I quivered with wrath, but what could I do 
But take what he gave me and bring* it to you ? 

If some word in this lay, 

Should offend you, I pray 
Just give all the blame to that imp of an elf ; 
If it please you, I'll take all the praise to myself. 



First, find your news item, then be sure it is true, 
Send it forth by first issue, or else it's not new. 
Up-to-date news, and truth, are hard to combine. 
Madam Rumor goes first, as you know, o'er each line 
Of 'phone, or of highway, and 'tis her design 
To startle the people. 
And proclaim from each steeple 
Some wonderful thing to amaze, and excite. 
And give to the gossips their greatest delight. 

Next to truth, and to timeliness, is the sweet grace 
Of saying right word, in right time, and right place 
Which may turn suspicion, or censure aside 
And men's failures, and blunders be able to hide. 

For it is a strange fact 

That this sweet kindly tact 
Is kin to the mantle of Charity, vvdiite. 
And "a multitude of sins'' hides from the si^ht. 



-75— 



Fix fast in your mind this principle true, 
That a man's gear, has but Httle to do 

With his mind or his soul, that a man may be great 
Without wealth, or power, or princely estate. 

Give the poor man his due, 

And the rich man a cue. 
That he'll win neither praise, or bouquets from you, 
Unless he has earned them, by work or by worth. 
By his strong helping hand, and the cheer of his hearth 
By the clean, honest walk, by the warm kindly heart, 
By worthily taking each day a man's part. 
By the true, strudy effort of brawn, or of brain, 
That has won him the good will of men ; that his gain 

Has been used for men's good, 

And be this understood 
Ere you laud him, or toast him, or write up his fame; 
Be sure he has earned all you add to his name. 

Be not the first one to herald some scheme, 

Untried or unheard of. It may be a dream 

Born in some poo.r, crude brain, even smaller than yours. 

Just sift it a little, the good wheat endures 

All sorts of sifting. 

And shaking and shifting. 
While chaff comes to naught ; I beg you beware 
Lest your pen should lead men into loss, or a snare. 

Don't nag at the young folks, or ''tell tales out of school,' 
You oft find one who blunders, but seldom a fool ; 
Call them "silly," "impudent," "indiscreet" if you must. 
But O, I beseech you ! lay your mouth in the dust 
If by word, shrug, or smile. 
You have hinted of anything vile. 
Or thrown out a thought to blemish a life 
Whose feet are just set on this pathway of strife. 



-76- 



Youth is full of fond fancies and innocent dreams, 
Warm hearted desires, and fanciful schemes. 
Just guard them from evil, by loving advice ; 
But before you add censure, I beg you think twice. 

Take them into your heart. 

Make their welfare a part 
Of the work of your life, in years still to come. 
You will find your reward in the love you have won. 

At the birth, aiTcl the bridal rejoice; but weep 
With neighbors and friends, o'er a loved one's last sleep, 
Let your pen spell out comfort, while you honor the dead. 
And midst sorrow's sad scenes, let your feet softly tread. 

If you unearth disgrace 

Draw a veil o'er it's face. 
For anguish, and heart-break, and despair follow fast 
The heralding forth this woe in your grasp. 

For back of the name you pierce with your pen, 
Lies a father's honor, his good name amongst men. 
Wife, or mother's fond heart, with its tears and its prayer.-^ 
And many a f-j-iend who still loves, and still cares. 

So I fain would teach you, 

Nay humbly beseech you ! 
To use at all times your kindliest pen. 
When you deal with the names and the problems of men. 

Be broad in your measure, be sweet to the core. 
All envious gossip, or slander ignore. 
If the love, and respect of your small world you'd win. 
Be lovers of men, and haters of sin. 

Pierce the evil thing through, 

Old, modern, or new. 
And let not your bugle make an uncertain sound ; 
Nor a soul be in doubt as to your standing ground. 



—77- 



Rise above party and politics too, 
Give to men, and to measures, the praise that is due ; 
Don't make up your mind that no good can come forth 
From Xazarene borders ; that no grain, and no growth 

Lies beyond your small field ; 

That no ground can give yield 
V, here your hand, and planter, has not sown the seeds ; 
And your hoe, and your plow-share has not torn the weeds. 

O, ''ready writer" — and scribe ! let me say 
You are dealing with men, and with souls by the way, 
Ask me not, "what manner of men" you should be. 
Don't stand on the watch-tower unless you can see 

He who walks on the height 

Is revealed by the light. 
And your work, and your wisdom is shown forth each day, 
While you deal with the just, or unjust, by the way. 

Lastly — 
Don't frown when the editor "blue-pencils" your page ; 
If he "scissors" your copy, don't fall in a rage; 
He sees the whole ground, you one very small spot. 
And he knows what he's doing, be sure, to a dot. 

* * * 

There, my elf ran away — 

Well, just let him stay; 
He has led me to ramble through paths old and new. 
And I'm sure you are ready to bid him Adieu. 



—78— 



The Holy Place. 



As the builder of a mansion builds one room, his very own, 
For his own good plans and pleasure, for his use, and his 

alone, 
So the Builder of the temple within which the soul doth 

dwell, 
Sets one cell apart forever, and none may it's secrets tell. 
You may scale the walls and enter every other room but 

this ; 
May e'en hold its keys and treasures, you may seal with 

ring and kiss, 
But "Thus far and yet no farther," is the legend o'er the 

door, 
And no claim of love or kinship may it's sanctity ignore. 



But one soul can pass it's portals and with self stand face 

to face. 
See it's secret springs and motives, know it's poverty or 

grace ; 
Stripped of all life's flaunting fig leaves, elemental, wayward, 

crude. 
Know itself and solve it's problems, in that sacred solitude. 
There oft-times the Master-Builder deigns to meet the wait- 
ing- soul, 
Show the riches of His store-house, give it largess without 

dole. 
Cleanse with "bitter herbs and hyssop" till the life grovv^s 

sweet and strong. 
Full of blessing, but still silent o'er the source of joyful 

song. 



-79— 



Seek not then, O best beloved! in this secret place to meet 
Heart to heart, or soul to soul, where I stand with unshod 

feet : 
"There is neither speech nor language," all unwritten is the 

lore 
Taught the soul in mystic stillness just beyond that guarded 

door. 
Let my life alone disclose it, my illumined face reveal 
What the ''scourge of small cords" meaneth, what avai/s the 

"potter's wheel," 
Learn, O soul ! the limitations of the spirit and the will, 
Seek within a sanctuary, in it's holy calm be still. 



Morning by the Sea. 

The day stole through the gates of dawn. 

And left the portals grey ajar; 
A flood of gold and crimson light swept trirough 

And dimmed the glory of the morning star. 
The rugged cliffs were clothed in mystic white ; 

Athwart the sea there fell a path of fiame; 
And flood, and field, and woodland woke to praise 

The great Creator's name. 




—80- 



Woman's Work. 

Now-and-Then. 

Woman's work and woman's mission are world wide, 
Not limited by time or place or age; 
Oft hampered by environment, and yet 
We see the self-same traits in serf and queen. 
Tradition says : " 'Tis her's to keep the hearth 
Well swept and clean, the board spread, to invite, 
To greet the coming feet with loving smiles; 
To smooth the brow of care, to soothe the heart 
Sore-burdened with life's struggle and life's load." 
We sing today the praise of woman's work 
In years gone by, the Then our title names 
When woman stood a helpmate, true and tried. 
Beside her "lord and master" strong to toil, 
And with an even yoke bearing alway 
The cruel load and burden of the day. 

Then, she made a home in camp or cabin 
For the ones she loved. She lit the glowing fire, 
And spread a bear-skin on the hearth and set 
A pot of flowers upon the sill, and Lo ! 
When the fumes of broiling fish or game rose 
On the open air, the hardy pioneer 
Hastening to his door beheld a home. 
He feasted at the humble board, and then 
Laid down to rest on fragrant boughs of pine, 
Or fresh, sweet bed of hay, or new threshed straw. 
And slept the sleep of peace and blest content. 

Then, she spent long days alone, her sole defense 
The watchful house dog or the trusty gun ; 
Her wary eyes oft scanning o'er the plain 
Or clearing's edge, tnat the approach ot beast. 
Or savage men might ever find her hand 
Prepared to guard her home ?.vy\ little ones. 

—SI— 



Then, she took the crudest product of the field, 

Or flock, and spun and wove and fashioned 

Strong, warm raiment for her household, and the hum 

Of vv^heel, or clash of loom rose with the psalm 

Of David, or the consecrated hymn 

In strains triumphant, and the strength was given 

To bear the toil, and the dangers meet 

Unflinching, face to face and unafraid. 

Then, in each isolated home, a world 
Within itself, so many household arts 
Grew up, that all it's homely needs were met 
Within it's own four walls. O, happy hour 
Around the warm fireside; the hum of wheel 
Or click of needles, and the flash of knife 
Or carving tools, or busy awl, each one 
Adding his mite unto the common store. 

And happier still the' hour when, work laid by. 
The father read aloud some treasured book, 
Or mother's voice arose in meter sweet 
Of some old poet, or in quaint old song, 
Or told some startling tale of earlier da3^s 
And danger past, that made the present seem 
A very heaven of safety and of peace. 

And then the sweet old chapter from God's word, 
The evening pra3^er, and sacred song of praise; 
And last, the precious mother's good-night kiss 
And "tucking in," and council sweet of love, 
Too sacred to repeat to stran£rer's ears. 



—82- 



In ye olden time, 
The household drawn around the bright fireside, 
Shut out from other social ties, and cheer, 
Shut in to fellowship with those best loved, 
Knew not a lonely hour ; beside that hearth 
No mother's heart grew faint with fear of ill 
Just halting at the door; of snares for feet 
Young and unwary on the world's highway ; 
But knowing that her Lord's own word was true 
She set her children's footsteps in "the way 
That they should go," and gave them to her God. 



And thus ran woman's work in days of old, 
But when you ask me for the "Now" I bid 
You look around ; look long, and deep, before 
You charge the present with a fall from grace. 
Much of the ruder work for woman's hands 
Are lightened by inventions and machines, 
But still the home remains ; the added needs 
Of finer social state but multiplies 
The thousand needful tasks her busy hands 
Will ever find to do ; while every whit 
Of life's best work and duty still is her's. 

Just as of old 'tis woman's mission still 

To make the rare, sweet atmosphere of home ; 

To fill the house with cheer, to sweeten ill 

With courage strong, and hope born from above ; 

To keep all things so sweet and wholesome there, 

That seldom harm can come to soul or body 

'Neath her watchful care. 

And her's to gently guide aright, to say, 

"This path is clean; perchance a little stony 

To the feet, but leading to a higher place. 

To purer air, and broader views of life." 

-83- 



Her's to train the youthful mind to meet 

The new demands the times have made on men ; 

To fit herself to keep apace with those 

Who need her counsel and her clear-eyed help 

In times like these, when evil drapes her form 

In garbs of light, and things that most defile 

Are sanctioned oft by custom and by law. 

Her's to stem the tide of infidelity, — 

Not with a train of arguments profound. 

But by a life so pure, a faith so strong, 

With face so radiant with hope and trust, 

With such a helpful, cheery interest 

In every soul she meets along her way, 

That scoffers may behold and ask 

"What hidden power her weakness underlies?" 

And still 'tis her's 
To guide the baby's faltering feet — to fold 
The baby's hands in prayer ; to uphold 
The tottering limbs of age; to watch beside 
The bed of pain ; to close the dying eyes ; 
Still her's to give the last sweet touch of grace 
To bridal or to bier — and not because 
Some sage has classified these things and said : 
"Herein lies woman's work;" but that deep down 
Inherent in her nature is the spring 
That moves her eager heart and hands and feet 
In ministry ennobling to the soul, 
Though oft the path be marked 1)y crimson stains. 

And this is Christian womanhood ! All ages 
Bear the record of her wisdom and her work. 
Her hand is open to the worthy poor 
With pity half divine; her dainty skirts 
Find no defilement in the haunts of want ; 



-84- 



The sinning one finds sympathy and help, 
The burdened one the helping hand and cheer, 
The sufferer a nurse and comforter; 
And where there's need, some woman zvaits to serve. 
Gladly she puts aside the oft crossed threads 
Of social obligation, that like cobwebs fine 
Stretch out and cling, oft hampering her feet, 
And bravely goes her way with soul intent 
On some sweet ministry or service fine 
Her heart alone can prompt, her hand alone 
Can do. And reverent men still marvel 
At her ♦weakness and her strength, and as of old 
Give her the place of honor; while the one 
Who claims her for his own doth give her praise, 
And ''children still rise up before her face 
And call her blessed," as in days of yore. 



"The Common Lot." 

Just a common-place life! but all below 

The self-same path must tread. 
And the infant's first piteous, wailing cry. 
The fair bride's tremulous smile and sigh. 
And the pallid face of our dead, 
Prove that high as the heavens and deep as the sea, 
The straits of a common-place life must be. 



-86— 



The Aftermath. 



'Twas the King's decree that the first math mown 
Should as first-fruits be offered before the throne, 
A free-will tithing — for the field was his own — 

And he in grace bestowing; 
But the husbandman grudged the fruit of the field 
And withheld the whole of the scanty yield, 
"I will give," he said, his greed to shield, 

''The fruit of the aftermath mowing/' 

But his brother who mowed the self same day 
Took to the King his tithing of hay 
And cheerily singing went on his way 

To finish his scanty mowing. 
Soon, green and fair, for all eyes to behold, 
Like an emerald set in bands of gold, 
Striking deep roots in the warm, rich mould 

The aftermath was growing. 

But he, who withheld the good King's right, 
Saw his field, once so fair in its owner's sight, 
Shriveled and shorn 'neath some new, strange blight. 

With never a green blade showing. 
And learned too late, there's a giving that tends 
To enrich the giver and he who lends 
To the Lord shall find that his blessings and friends. 

Like the aftermath, are growing. 

To the faithful, earnest, trusting soul, 
A largess comes without stint or dole, 
He v.'ho giveth a part, shall find the whole 

Enriched by the free out-going. 
So he doeth Vvell who throris::h dearth or gain, 
Doth honor, and truth, and the right maintain. 
Still brings to the King the best of the g"rain. 

Nor waits for the aftermath mowing. 



-86- 



?->' 



Prayer or Praise. 

Is any among you afflicted, let him pray. Is any merry 
let him sing psalms. — James 3-13. 

Is your heart sore burdened ? Pray ! 

Is it merry? Sing! 
Heed you well this wise command, 

Children of the King ! 
If the burden grievous is, 

He can make it light; 
If your feet incline to stray, 

He can set them right. 

If your path a puzzle seem, 

Patiently await 
The unfolding of his plan, 

Perfect soon or late. 
If the wells of joy overflow, 

Sing aloud His praise; 
Glad to magnify His name 

By your words and ways. 

Song, or service, prayer or praise ; 

He the order knows ; 
Trust His wisdom and His word, 

From which blessing flows. 



-87- 



After the Storm. 



The earth turns her storm-swept face once more, 

To a sunHt, cloudless sky; 
All nature smiles in the tempest's wake, 

As the thunder's mutterings die. 

But the storm has left its mark on the world, 

Broken boughs and flooded fields ; 
While the fallen fruit and the shattered nest. 

Prove the power the storm king wields. 

But the grass springs up, and the birds sing still, 
And the earth turns her face to the sun ; 

And nature heals her wounds, in the same 
Sweet way she has always done. 

Oh, storm-swept soul midst the ruin and wreck 

Of- all that was fair and sweet, 
Turn thy face to the sun , the things that are best, 

Shall never know death or defeat. 

Love cannot die, and life shall go on 
Though changed and beyond our ken; 

Our father lives, and His name is Love, 
And He cares for the children of men. 




Dying, Old Tree? 



Why, dear old tree, are your boughs Hnip and brown? 
Tell me why, O why, is your glorious crown 
Of leaves, and branches so withered and pale? 
O, why does your strength and beauty fail? 

Ah me ! Can it be 
You are dying and slipping away from me, 

Dying, old tree? 

You have stood like a sentinel day by day. 

With your sturdy mate just over the way. 

While beneath your archway has grown or come. 

All the factors and forces that make up a home. 

Birds have builded their nests in your tremulous leaves. 

While a home was wrought out 'neath yon hanging eaves, 

And the nestlings' twitter and laugh of the child, 

Flave mingled their notes while the angels smiled. 

And you — can it be 
A part of this music and song and glee. 

Are dying, old tree? 

Fair brides have gone forth with their hopes and fears. 
Biers been borne past midst tolling and tears. 
Great nations have warred, and orphans wailed. 
Republics arisen and kingdoms failed. 
While you rustled and sighed, gave shelter and shade 
To the \yeary and way-worn, man, matron and maid. 
To whispering lovers, to the sports of the child, 
And your shadowy coolness, to rest beguiled ; 

But novv^ — can it be 
You are slipping away from the home and me, 

Dying, old tree? 



-89— 



Aye, once I could hold in my strong young palm 

This trunk of yours ; but through calm and through storm^ 

You have waxed great ; now my feeble arms fail 

To girdle you round — but I tell the tale 

While you — Ah me ! 
Are slowly but surely dying, old tree. 

They tell me some insect has pierced your heart, 
Or some bird's bill punctured a vital part, 
And the rain and the dew that is pent therein — 
Like tears in the heart of your human kin — 
Has stifled your hfe, and soon you will be 
Only wood and fibre and bark, old tree ! 
Just a s'enseless thing, once so dear to me. 
For you're dying, old tree. 

Wherein did abide this mysterious power 
Called life, which day by day and hour by hour. 
Lifted your branches and leaves to the sky, 
And now forsakes you and leaves you to die? 

Leaves you to die, old tree ! 
Tell me whence came this life, and where did it go? 
Ah ! no one seeth and no one doth know ; 
All this mystic force is enfolded within 
The tree — or the man — and so we are kin. 

You and me, 
Though my life goes on and yours ceases to be» 

For you're dying, old tree. 

Would that in some fairer land and clime, 
I could find you again, free from blight of time : 
And in the light of that glorious day. 
Greet this beauteous life that is fading away 

Fading away, I see, 
Slipping away from your mates and me. 

For you're dying, old tree 



-90- 



The Cricket on the Hearth. 



You may talk of the cricket's cheerful chirp 

By the hearth of a wintry night, 
While the teakettle sings, and the cozy room 

Is bathed in the rosy light. 
You may tell how the children repeat the call 

From beneath the old stone hearth, 
And peer in each crevice, with eager eyes, 

For the sprite that echoes their mirth. 

You may cherish your cricket with tender care. 

And praise his "song in the night." 
Tell the good luck he brings, as he merrily sings 

'Neath the hearth in the warm fire-light. 
But he never has brought good luck to me 

Though he came, with his tribe, one day 
And peopled each room of my good old home 

Just as though he had come to stay. 

And he sheared the nap from my carpet new, 

And hid in my curtains of lace ; 
And on rugs, and cushions, and silken robe. 

My cricket left many a trace. 
He speckled with white my best black gloves. 

And nibbled my Sunday gown ; 
He scalloped the visor of Bobby's cap, 

xAnd made rows of holes in the crown. 

An'l many a trick he played on the maids, 

in dining room, pantry and hall, 
A.nd we would not repine if never again 

We should hear his cheerful call. 
So ril take my cricket a-field, if you please, 

And risk the cheer of the hearth, 
A more meddlesome fellow I've never found 

On the face of this great green earth. 



-i)l- 



The Poet's Verdict. 

To my home 'neath the pines a poet came, 

One I counted great and wise; 
And I longed to see the worth of my work 

Through the lens of his clear eyes. 
So I read at his wish, a poem rife 

With the throes of an earnest soul 
Throbbing and thrilled with the problems of life, 

And full of its pathos and dole. 

'Twas a paen set to a lofty strain 

Born in some triumphant hour, 
Strong to endure, and full of faith. 

In an over-ruling power. 
When with level eyes he smiling said, 

"Your verse is strong and good," 
My heart grew faint and sick with fear 

Lest he had not understood. 

"Now read me some simple little lav;" 

So I chose — not my brightest or best — 
Just a little pathetic mother-song 

I had christened "The Empty Nest." 
It had sung itself neath the trees, one day. 

From the depths of my mother-heart; 
For a silent room in my lonely home, 

Held its very counterpart. 

A silence long — I lifted my eyes 

With fear, lest he scorn my lay ; 
And, wondering, saw a quivering lip, 

And a face half turned away. 
But he flashed me a smile from tear-dimmed eyes 

With a wonderful sweetness fraught ; 
And I marveled much if my gifted friend, 

Were as great and wise as I thought. 



—92- 



Our Thank Offering. 



(Written for a Missionary Meeting.) 



To Him who sits enthroned above, 

Whose name is Righteousness and Love, 

Whose mercy crowns our works and ways, 

We give today our meed of praise. 

Our fruitful land with plenty flows, 

The "seed-time and the harvest" shows 

His grace unfailing; true and sure, 

His mercy ever shall endure. 

'Neath righteous laws — in which we trace 

The law divine — each dwelling place 

Is safe, secure, all girded round 

With law's strong arm, and peace profound. 



Our homes are sacred; none may dare 
Their blessings or their goods to share 
Unasked ; and here beneath the vine 
And fig-tree of your home and mine, 
No stranger e'er may dare intrude 
With stern demands or language rude. 
Our children grow around our hearth 
Like olive plants ; no want or dearth 
Their sweet lives know, no burdens bear. 
Save those which we all eladlv share. 



Before the law our women stand 

With equal favor; all the laiid 

Is pledged to honor, guard, sustain. 

The christian woman's v/ork and name. 

Her mind is trained to think, to see 

The question of the liour, to be 

So grounded in the truth that right 

—93— 



She finds by instinct's mystic light ; 
Or, better still, by spirit taught, 
Heaven sent, she fares on mission fraught 
With holy zeal, while 'neath her feet, 
Springs forth the fruit of labors sweet 
Where e'er there's need her feet are swift 
To minister, to cheer, to shift 
From burdened ones their load.^ and bear 
The cross herself and others spare. 



She smoothes strong manhood's brow of care. 
She folds the baby's hands in prayer; 
She leads the children by her side. 
She is the world's best hope and pride. 
Before the nation's councils, still 
She stands and pleads ; her wish and will 
Are weighed by reverent men with care, 
And pondered o'er with earnest prayer. 
She makes the rare, sweet atmosphere 
Of home ; its light and cheer 
Stand forth as witness of her power; 
She is the nation's best, in flower. 



There's a land far over the billows 
Where the people in darkness dwell 
In idol worship, and mystic rites. 
Whose horrors no tongue can tell. 
Where the children are burden bearers, 
And woman a toy, or a slave, 
And all that is pure or true or good, 
Finds only a living grave. 



Where holy men are sovv^ing the seed 
Which springs up in the midst of the night, 
And the people are tuniing from idols, 

—94— 



And the women are seeking the light. 
They are fettered by ignorance, and weak 
From the thralldom of sinful years, 
But they hold beseeching hands to us, 
With heart breaking pra3^ers and tears. 

So we ask in the name of the mother 
Who bore you, in this goodly place. 
In the name of the one best beloved 
By your side, by her goodness and grace, 
We ask in the name of your darling — 
The little maid on your knee — 
That you give from your fullness, the gospel 
To the women far over the sea. 

To teach them of God and His glory, 

Of their own degradation and loss, 

To tell them the old, old story 

Of Jesus Christ on the cross. 

To show them a full salvation 

That meets their sin and their need. 

In the name ^f our Master who bade us "Go!' 

For tlTe heathen w^oman, we plead. 



This gospel teaching underlies 
The social fabric which Vv^e prize ; 
Each sacred right, this holy hour. 
Of prayer and praise, is through its power 
Then shall we not with common voice. 
Lift up our hearts, give thanks, rejoice, 
And send an offering o'er the sea. 
That they who uo-oj are blind, may see? 



-95- 



A Reminiscence. 



A humble home on the prairie wide, 

Weather-beaten, bare and lonely ; 
Within is warmth, and mother, and cheer. 

Without — storm and darkness only. 
Safe and sheltered the household rests, 

Save the sweet-faced, dark-eyed mother, 
W^ho has set herself a task for the night, 

The angels are smiling over. 

From each bare window a light gleams forth, 

To guide the friend or stranger, 
Whose feet may stray on the trackless plain. 

Into drifts, and darkness and danger. 
The wild gale clutches the house in its grasp. 

The storm through each crevice driving, 
While the wind-tossed snow-swirls scurry past. 

Like evil spirits striving. 

The watcher with pale face pressed to the pane. 

Lists to the tempest screaming; 
Fancying forms in the ghostly light 

From her own lone windows streaming; 
Her heart beats fast 'neath a strange, wierd spell, 

But her faithful watch still keeping. 
She trims her lamps while the storm rages on, 

And the careless world lies sleeping. 

How many lost ones were brought to the light ! 

Hov/ many vv-ere kept from straying! 
Eternity's scroll keeps the record aright. 

Beyond the watching and praying. 
But in memory's hall a picture hangs. 

Time's hand can touch but faintly; 
Of a gliding figure and bus}^ hands, 

Tn ministry sweet and ?ainll3^ 

—96— 



Oh, mother! beyond the gates of pearl, 

The light of thy life still shining, 
Brightens our path through the storms below- 

Though its beauty but half divining — 
We go on our way 'midst smiles and tears, 

While we wait for the radiant dawning ; 
Knowing full well we shall find once more 

The home, and mother, and morning. 



Chastened. 



To sit in the shadow of weakness, 

With the busy hands feeble and still; 
To wait 'midst pain or sorrow 

With a chastened mind and will; 
Is to sit in the place of blessing, 

'Neath the Hand that cannot send 
Aught but good, to the waiting patient soul, 

That trusts His love to the end. 

Listen, O soul, in the stillness 

Of affliction, or pain, or loss, 
For the message He sends with the anguish, 

For the healing from the cross. 
Else the travail of soul and body 

Shall never with blessing be fraught 
And the lesson the Lord would teach today 

To thy blinded eyes be as naught. 



-97- 



The Covenant Meeting. 



They rose in the "covenant meeting/' 

And told of their hopes and fears, 
Of the friends they hoped to meet again 

Beyond this vale of tears. 
And they spoke of godly parents, 

Of a "saintly mother's prayer," 
And hoped in the covenant blessings 

Their souls vv'ould have a share. 

But one who sat in the shades of doubt, 

'Neath a heritage of shame, 
Caught a glimpse of sweetest truth that day 

As if writ by a pen of flame. 
And arose in the covenant meeting 

And said : 'T praise His name, 
That He came, not to call the righteous, 

But sinners to reclaim. 

That He gave His life a ransoni 

For sinners vile as me; 
To break the chains of sense and sm, 

And set the captive free. 
And I, by trusting His gracious word, 

And walking the path He trod. 
May find a peace the world cannot give, 

And become a 'Son of God.' 

'Tis good to have godly parents, 

And 'a covenant of grace,' 
But I, who have neither, still can be, 

The head of a godly race. 
And so I renounce the devil 

And all of his works today.'' 
And the leader said with a husky voice, 

"My brethren, let us pray." 



-98- 



"If Thy Soul Were in My Soul's Stead." 

Job 16:4. 

"li thy soul were in my soul's stead," 

And my soul stood in thine, 
Would I bruise thy heart with ceaseless strife, 
Would I heap up charges against thy life, 

And boast of the fruits of mine? 
Would I censure, and scorn, and judge thy aim, 
Would I sting and wound, and give thee pain? 

If my soul stood in thy soul's stead. 

Would I stronger be in the right? 
Would I never list to the tempter's call. 
Would I never waver or falter or fall, 

In the midst of the hottest fight? 
Would I bravely bear loss and shame and pain, 
Rather than some one would lose by my gain? 

If my soul stood in thy soul's stead, 

Would I live more nobly today? 
Would I try to shield thy defenseless head, 
In the hall of judgment more softly tread. 

Would I guide the feet that stray? 
Would I weigh human sin with patient lore. 
And plead for the erring at Mercy's door? 

Nay, wisdom dwells not in human form, 

"All nations He made of one blood ;" 
And the wisest is weak and the boaster is shorn 
Of his strength, ere the cock crows thrice for the morn 

.\r.d none for God's truths in the trial have stood. 
Save those, whose lives and foreheads white. 
Bear the Lord's own seal and are strong in His mii^ht. 



-99 



Peace. 



A sweet peace fills my soul alway, 

I scarce a want can plead ; 
The Father's love enfolds each day, 

He knoweth all my need ; 
I cannot ask for earthly gifts, 

He knoweth what is best ; 
And every fibre of my heart, 

In this thought findeth rest. 

I cannot plan for future days, 

But few may be in store ; 
And as today my strength He stays. 

So will He ever-more ; 
I scarce can ask for those I love. 

One sin.srle earthly prize : 
How can I know an evil, from 

A blessing in disguise? 

When storms and sorrows crush my heart 

Midst cares, and pain, and strife. 
I whisper while the teardrops start ; 

"They cannot touch my Life." 
And 'neath the shadow of the night 

I clasp my hands and cry: 
"Dear Lord, in darkness as in light, 

I know that Thou are nigh." 

When scoffers mock and talk of wrath 

I only see the cross, 
And He v/ho great compassion hath 

On sinners and their lo?s ; 
I only see the direful truth, 

That all were dead in sin ; 
That all were enemies of God 

Whom Jesus died to win. 

—100- 



And all the longings of my soul, 

In sweet petitions flow 
That all may see this wondrous love 

And Thy salvation know ; 
The greater, compasseth the less: 

He who redemption wrought ^ ^ 
In love, and wisdom, gives beypr^ -,. 

Our asking, or our thought. 



Thanksgiving Eve. 

(A Farm Scene.) 



November comes, in dull gray clad. 

With snow-fringed cloudlets round her head 
While withered leaves and blighted flowers 

Mark all the paths wherein she treads. 
The shriveled vines droop day by day, 

The naked trellis stands forlorn. 
The bare, brown branches creak and sway. 

Of all their wealth and verdure shorn. 

The lowing herd crowds close the hedge, 

Or seeks the stanchion and the stall ; 
The sparrows twitter on the ledge, 

While watching where the waste grains fall. 
And stored in crib, and bin, and barn, 

The rich fields' §:arnered fullness lies ; 
The chattering squirrel cocks has head, 

And hidden hoard of nuts denies. 



101 



The dusky cellar, cool and sweet, 

Stores apples golden, crimson, bright, 
And many a toothsome treasure mete 

For man's refreshment and delight. 
The hearth's warm glow the shadows quell, 

The flames light up the pictured walls ; 
And noM the deep toned evening bell 

The husbandman from labor calls. 



The lighted window's cheerful glow 

Bids welcome to the weary feet; 
The savory odors outward flow. 

The hungry laborer to greet. 
The well spread board ablaze with light, 

Hints what tomorrow's feast will bring ; 
Full of content, fast falls the night, 

The hours speed by on golden wing. 

The farmer talks of flocks and fold. 

Of seedtime and of harvest sure; 
Of herds safe sheltered from the cold. 

From blast and coming storm secure. 
The children clamber on his knee, 

The babe sleeps on the mother's breast, 
And laugh and song and household glee, 

Fill up the hours with peace and rest. 

O home safe sheltered from the blast 

Of wintry cold, or want or need! 
Give thanks for good within your grasp. 

For blessings which you scarcely heed. 
What know you of the awful pain 

Of desolation, hunger, woe? 
What know you of the greed for gain, 

Oppression, fraud? What can you know? 



-102- 



Throw wide your doors, O favored ones, 

To welcome stranger, friend or guest. 
"Give thanks anew" the mandate runs, 

"For goodly land, for home and rest." 
O, blessed homes! a bulwark stand, 

'Gainst floods of evil, crime and wrong; 
The safeguard of our native land. 

Its strength, its light, its joy, its song. 



The Ranz Des Vaches. 

{A Thanksgiving Poem.) 

The "Ranz des Vaches," or "Song of the Cows," is a 
simple song and horn service of the Swiss herdsmen of the 
Alps. The herdsmen are poor people who pasture their 
herds in the mountains wherever grass can be found. When 
ii is time to start the herds homezvard, some herdsman calls 
through his horn, "Praise the Lord," and the herdsman 
nearest responds, "Praise the Lord." Then the next repeats 
the call till all have anszvered. Then there is a silence 
W'hile each bows in prayer. After a fezv moments spent in 
zt'orship, someone calls "good-night" and each man in turn 
responds as before. 

THE RANZ DES VACHES. 

When the soft purpling shadows slowly creep 

'Neath the ragged, beetling crags ; 
When the sunlight scarce touches the mountain's tip, 
\, :.ile the foam gleams white on the cataract's lip. 

And the eagle's pinion flags — 

From the mountain's side rings a clear wild note. 
Hark ! Another cleaves the air ! 

—103— 



In heavenly heights its sweetness seems born, 
Hark ! again and again ! 'Tis the herdsman's horn, 
CalHng each other to prayer. 

From smooth green places by rocks hemmed in, 

From the gorge 'neath the waterfall's spray ; 
"Praise the Lord !" calls the Alpine herdsman now, 
"Praise the Lord !" rings back from the mountain's brow 
"Praise the Lord ! Praise the Lord !" alway. 

In the lonely places, far, far above 

Where silence broods and enshrouds, 
There the tranquil stillness is shattered and torn. 
By the thrilling blast of the herdsman's horn: 

"Praise the Lord!" from above the clouds. 

Then a silence falls, and with uncovered head, 

The herdsman is worshipping there 
Alone with his God, but he knows full well, 
That by many a mountain pass and dell 

A brother is bowed in prayer. 

After the silence the herdsman once more 

Calls in the waning light 
And back from the mountain side here and there. 
Over and over, at close of the prayer 

Hear the sweet "Good-night" — "Good-night." 

Oh ! rare, sweet custom of simple men. 

From the world and its ways set apart, 
We stand with bowed heads as on holy ground. 
For in only one rite has our nation found 

Thy shadowy counterpart. 



—104- 



The head of our nation calls year after year 

"Give thanks, oh ! my people, today." 
And from north, and from south ; from east and from west, 
Comes the answer : "We praise Him ;" from greatest to 
least, 

Oh ! praise ye the Lord" alway. 

"Give thanks for the harvest, the fruits of the field, 

That no famine or pestilence reign ; 
For peace with all nations under the sun." 
And the stars on the old flag respond, one by one : 

"Praise the Lord for His mercy again." 



From broad sweeping prairies, from mountain and lea. 

From the cliffs by the storm-beaten shore, 
From mines, from mansions, from hamlet, and hall. 
E'en the ships and the sea shall signal the call : 
"Praise the Lord all ye people once more." 

From cities' great centers, from sciences' proud halls, 

"Give thanks evermore" swells the lay. 
From ranches, and farms, by the grain bursting bins 
Where the wealth of the nation is stored ; yea begins ; 
"Praise the Lord" rino-s the anthem todav. 



The church bells are ringing the glad music out : 

"Praise the Lord!" all the people proclaim. 
Rejoice and be glad, beat the heavens with song. 
Clasp hands with thanksgiving Oh! joyful throng! 
"Give thanks to the Lord, praise His name!" 

Spread a feast for the stranger witliin the gates, 

Likewise for thy friend and thy guest : 
Send the sweet and the fat to the povor at thy door, 
Bid them eat — with thanksgiving — from out of thy stor 

Praise the Lord for a portion so blest. 

—105— 



Yea, bid men of all nations, who flock to our shores, 

To give praise to the Lord, and His word. 
That a refuge is found. Tell the isles of the sea 
That a nation is born where blessings fall free, 
"A nation whose God is the Lord." 

Fill the old home again with laughter and song, 

Throng to fireside and feast as of yore ; 
But whether in farm house, or mansion, or cot, 
Give thanks for the blessings that follow thy lot, 
"Praise the Lord, praise the Lord" evermore ! 



Thy Recompense. 



To each life's work some bound is set. 
Some limit which our spirits fret. 
Some legal bond or moral debt 

To service binds; 
And thus environed, the soul's growth 
And powers are strangled at their birth. 
And life seems shorn of strength and worth, 

And bondage finds. 

But God who sees with clearer eyes 
That true strength 'neath the surface lies. 
The outward growth, in love, denies; 

'Till rooted fast 
In calm, sweet depths of truth and grace, 
That changeth not by time or place. 
The soul, with God's plans face to face, 

Finds peace at last. 



-106- 



As rills, pent up, seep through the ground, 

Make fertile all the soil around, 

So burthened souls God's praises sound 

Beneath the rod. 
On vines well trained and pruned and bound. 
Clusters of richest fruit are found ; 
So tried and chastened lives abound 

With fruit for God. 

What if thine hand the fetter wrought, 
If thine own act with evil fraught. 
This bondage to thy life has brought 

And good denied? 
Call it not loss, call it not fate; 
''They serve who only stand and wait ;" 
While humbly serving, Heaven's own gate 

May open wide. 

Bend low thy neck and wear thy yoke, 
As princely shoulders bear the stroke 
Of plebian hands ; nor help invoke ; 

God sees thy goal. 
Chafe not against thy earth-bound chain. 
But softly sing the sweet refrain, 
''All earthly loss is heavenly gain 

Unto my soul." 

Through all mistakes, yea, sins or pain 
Of powers suppressed and labors vain. 
Thy soul shall find, not loss but gain, 

Though long delayed. 
He holds thee in His hand ; "Be still 
And know that I am God." No ill 
Can reach or harm thee 'gainst His will ; 

Be not afraid. 



107— 



Peace Be Unto You. 

And the same day at evening, being the first day of 
the week, when the doors were shut where the disciples 
were assembled for fear of the Jews, came Jesus and stood 
in the midst and saith "Peace be unto you." — John, xx.iq. 

And they were terrified and affrighted * * * and 
He said unto them, ''Why are ye troubled? And why do 
thoughts arise in your hearts? Behold my hands and my 
feetr — Luke xxiv-sysS. 

While the shades of night were falHng, 

For communion sweet they came, 
To tell of their fears and sorrows 

And mourn His death of shame. 
And Mary told of His presence 

In the dewey garden that morn. 
As He walked amidst the lilies 

With the golden sunbeams born. 

And they told the blessed message 

"He is risen," the angel brought, 
And Peter told of the empty tomb 

His eager feet had sought, 
And the two who had sadly journeyed 

To fair Emmaus that day, 
Told of the blessed stranger 

Who had joined them on their way. 

How their hearts had burned in His presence. 

How their eyes were opened at last 
To behold their Lord and Master, 

And His mission faintly grasp. 
But an undertone of sadness, 

Half of joy, but blent with pain 
Ran through their sad communing, 

Of this hope, so seeming vain. 

—108— 



But what means the hush and silence? 

And why do their longings cease? 
The Master stands in the midst again, 

With the same sweet message, "Peace," 
Spake peace to the doubting Thomas, 

And to him who thrice denied 
His Lord, in the halls of Pilate, 

'Twixt midnisfht and morninp^tide. 



'to' 



Spake, sweet peace for tremblin.g sinners 

Peace, wroug'ht out upon the cross ; 
And peace in the face of danger, 

Peace, peace, 'midst pain and loss. 
''Peace, for your sins are buried 

In the grave where I have lain, 
And peace for death is conquered, 

And lo ! I have risen again !" 

And while trembling and sore affrighted 
Again came the message sweet 

'* Why are your hearts so troubled ? 

Behold my hands and my feet !" 

Oh, feet so bruised and wounded! 
Oh, hands that were pierced for me. 

Type and token full of sweetest grace. 
Forever more shall be. 



-109— 



Christmas Eve. 

The grey twilight falls and the little ones 

Ponder the mystic story 
Of the Babe in the manger, rude and cold, 
Close by kine and flocks, in stall and fold 

'Neath the great star's shining glory. 
Wonder and ponder in gladsome awe 

Of the hosts of angels singing, 
In the wondrous light of the heavens above 
Softly chanting the song of peace and love; 

The heavenly tidings bringing. 

Of a Savior born, to a sin-sick world. 

To heal its wounds and sadness ; 
To bear its sins and its burdens and pain; 
To bind up the broken heart again, 

And pour in the oil of gladness. 
To graciously hold to his loving breast 

The babes, in clasp caressing. 
To say, ''Of such is heaven's kingdom made," 
While they smile in His face, till His hands are laid 

On their heads in tender blessing. 

Then they whisper low of the strange wise men 

Their rare, rich gifts bestowing. 
On the infant Christ, in the manger laid. 
By the virgin mother, all unafraid, 

'Neath the star's celestial glowing. 
And the sacred story sweetens the bliss 

Of the coming gifts and giving; 
And through innocent visions of the night, 
Floats the angel's song and the holy light, 

Of a truth, forever living. 



-110- 



O, Giver of gifts ! By Bethlehem's star, 

By the shining choir singing, 
By the way of the manger and the cross. 
Send the message that burns away earth's dross. 
With, "Glory to God in the highest. Peace, 
Good will to men !" For the story 
That the angels sing and the children love, 
Is the theme of the ransomed hosts above ; 

The joy of the courts of glory. 



The AngeFs Song. 

"Peace on earth!'' the angels sing; 
''Peace!" the heavenly anthems ring! 
Shine, O Star of Bethlehem 
"Peace on earth, good will to men." 
Join, O soul, the angel's song, 
Send the gladsome strain along ; 
Let the ages richer be 
For thy joyous melody. 

I\[en and angels join the lay 
''Christ, a Savior's born today." 
Sin and death shall reign no more, 
Peace and pardon evermore ; 
God's great gift to man receive! 
Open v/ide the heart ! Believe 
In His grace, His love, His power. 
And rejoice from this glad hour. 



—Ill 



Let the Christlife richly flow 
Through thy words and ways below, 
Let the hearth grow warm and bright 
By thy spirit's radiant light; 
Carry to the house of prayer, 
Of thy joy a goodly share, 
Let thy face shine by the way, 
Prove the love of Christ today. 
Gladness springs not from the earth; 
Joy is not of human birth; 
But peace filtered through the soul. 
Cleanseth, purifies, makes whole. 
Love springs forth, truth grows apace. 
And joy crowns the three-fold grace. 
Angels sing o'er Bethlehem, 
"Peace on earth, good will to men." 




-112— 



A Christmas Carol. 



A little Babe in a manger rude; 

Bethlehem's star in the sky; 
A host of angels singing "Peace," 

And ''Glory to God on high" — 
And the Christmas day was born to us 

With its glad good news and glory, 
And wise men all adown the years, 

Have loved to tell the story. 

How love divine has found a way 

For grace and gracious giving; 
The Christ-child born, God's greatest gift 

To every mortal living, 
Then bring your myrrh and frankincense, 

Your gold and precious treasure. 
And cummin, mint and annis, too. 

Beside all gifts must measure. 
For love flows not in shallow streams 

By line and plummet sounded ; 
But free and full its depth and worth, 

On its completeness founded. 

Then let all hearts, the glad, the sad, 

Unite to bless the stranger, 
Who from the manger to the cross 

Dared pain and shame and danger, 
To rescue weak and sinful ones 

Of every tribe and nation, 
And wrought out on the cruel cross, 

A full and free salvation. 



—113— 



To the Christmas Baby. 



What do you mean, you lusty boy, 

By coming these Christmas times? 
When the house is full of secrets and fun, 

And the air with Christmas chimes. 
You have taken us unaware, my lad. 

And we scarce know what to do. 
The gifts are bought and the money spent. 

And there isn't a thing for you. 

Not even a whistle, or top, or ball. 

Or a rattle set with pearls. 
Just dolls and ribbons and rings and fans. 

In a house fitted up for girls. 
But what do you care for a few silly things, 

You are sure to lose or break? 
There are more Christmas days to come, little one — 

Now don't cry, for pity's sake! 

You shall have a host of things next year, 

And a pony and saddle some day, 
And a whip with a silver ferrule, too. 

And most everything your way. 
Now why do you frown, and wriggle and whine, 

And make such an ugly face? 
This isn't heaven, of course, my child. 

But you'll find it a pleasant place. 

And you'll learn some day there's nothing so true. 

On this great big globe called earth. 
As the love and devotion and tender care. 

That meets the babe at its birth. 
So don't be staring there at the light ; 

Shut your eyes and go to sleep ! 
For the Christmas joy, and this hoard of love, 

Are gifts you can always keep. 

—114— 



t 



Mn iii^mnrtam 



Is life a failure when a man doth fall 

With harness on, and labor waiting still 

For his strong hands to finish and perfect? 

He who begins no work leaves none undone; 

But when a life is rounded to the brim 

With honest toil and noble deeds of love, 

God calls it a success, I ween. A work 

Well done, that sets the very harps of Heaven 

Ringing with praise of Him who gave the strength, 

And girded up the loins of the soul 

To run the race with patience ; and gave grace 

To lay the labor down all incomplete, 

For other hands to finish. 



—116— 



In Memoriam. 

What have you done to our dearest one, 

What have you done, O Death? 
Why is his brow so marble cold. 
Why so still his heart, as his hands we fold? 

Where is his faltering breath? 

"I have chilled his brow with my icy hand, 

I have stilled his heart and brain ; 
I have closed his eyes to the joys of life, 
I have shut him away from children and wife ; 

He knows no pleasure or pain." 

O, Death ! O, Death ! Your work has failed ; 

You have opened the doors of Life; 
He has slipped from your grasp to his home above. 

And ceased from his toil and strife. 

He is victor now! Oh where is thy sting? 

O what have you won, O grave? 
We kiss the rod and smile through our tears, 
He shall live with his Savior through endless years. 
And sing His power to save. 



-117- 



In Memoriam. 

He deemed his life a failure as his hands 

No gifts of gold could bring; 
And so he filled them with sweet deeds of love 

And brought them to his King. 

He could not give his sons and daughters wealth, 

Or earthly fame or power ; 
And so he sought his closet day by day 

To pray for them an hour. 

One's feet were stayed upon the brink of death, 

On one rare blessings fell ; 
They knew not why the awful danger stayed, 
From whence the blessings? Tell. 

He could not run the race for gold, 

For glory or renown ; 
And so he humbly walked with God 

And won a heavenly crown. 



-118— 



In Memoriam. 

Peacefully sleeping; life's labors done, 

Time's problems all solved, and the victory won ; 

Set free from the thralldom of the world and the flesh, 

The soul has escaped like the bird from the leash, 

And left this fair clay that we weep over now, 

With heaven's own light on the radiant brow. 

Fold the frail hands now 'neath the violets bloom. 
Let the flowers bend above her, and shed their perfume. 
Like the life she has lived since her tenderst youth. 
Full of love, and compassion ; of sweetness and truth ; 
All mistakes, and all failures God's grace covers o'er, 
E'en the sins of His ransomed, remembers no more. 

Why, the swift, willing feet, and the ministering hands 
Should cease their sweet service, no one understands. 
But look up, dear hearts ! through your tears, "God is love 
You are bound to Himself with strong cords from above. 
For your mother is there, and the sweet ties here riven 
He will bind up again in her home and His heaven. 



—119— 



In Memoriam. 

"I love you," she whispered with palHd Hps 

And the death dew on her face; 
"I love you, dear!" and the luminous eyes 

Were full of love's nameless grace. 
O, love, that comes with the earliest breath ! 

And grows with each passing day ; 
That bears, and endures and faileth not, 

That lives forever and aye. 

O, deathless power of mother love, 

Strong, and mighty and deep ! 
Whose tides o'erflow the shores of time, 

When ''He gives His beloved sleep." 
O, plead for each child 'fore the Father's throne 

His promise to ''thee and thine ;" 
Till thy mighty force shall point to the cross 

And blend with the love divine. 



—120 



In Memoriam. 

Fold the frail hands softly over her breast, 
Let the flowers droop above her, and leave her to rest ; 
Nay, weep not! 'tis more fitting to smile than to weep. 
For the Father has given "His beloved one sleep." 

Peace dwells in the smile of her dear lips today, 
The same peace that has marked every step of her v/ay, 
Not the "peace that the world giveth," fleeting and vain, 
Not the peace of fair prospects, possession, or gain — 

Bnt the sweet peace of God which no sorrow can mar, 
Which has shown in her life like Bethlehem's star. 
Peace in life and in death ! O, why should we weep 
When the Father doth give "His beloved one sleep?" 



121- 



In Memoriam. 

We could go to the valley of shadows 

Whose mysteries none understands ; 
We could go to the brink of the river 

With our prayers and our clinging hands. 
But when the dark shadows enfolded, 

And the cold waves lapped his feet, 
We must stand afar in his hour of need; 

Where the known and the unknown meet. 

But, Ah! there was O'ne, who stood nearer 

Than father, or brother, or friend; 
Who walks in the shadowy valley, 

And forsake not 'till the end. 
And on that Friend and Savior 

His faith, and his hopes were stayed; 
In the valley, and flood, he heard a voice 

It is I! Be not afraid! 



-122- 



Abide With Me. 

My path leads down the sunset slope, 

The shadows eastward fall; 
My feet shall not in darkness grope, 

God's light is over all. 
Abide with me, O, blessed one! 

Forever-more abide. 
Until the long day's work is done; 

For all my needs provide. 

I am Thy child! and Thou hast said 

"Alt even-tide it shall be light." 
The path of faith with Thee I tread 

With joy, the way is bright! 
Abide with me ! Thy grace will give 

The rest and peace I crave. 
T'hy love shall gird me to the end. 

And keep me strong and brave. 

And all my path shall brighter grow 

"Unto the perfect day;" 
For he who holds my hands must still 

Lead me in peace along the way. 
"Abide with" me ! for Thine own sake 

And glory, still abide! 
When in thy likeness I awake, 

I shall be satisfied." 



—123 



m 7 1909 



